


Resilient

by notunbroken



Series: Redress [2]
Category: Major Crimes (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-03-30 08:09:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13947375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notunbroken/pseuds/notunbroken
Summary: As Sharon adjusts to the lull of post-transplant life, she uncovers a cause to pursue.





	1. Keep Going

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to “Resolve” and, as such, won’t make a whole lot of sense unless you’ve read that story.

The days undergo a gradual shift, from hazy sleep-filled hours to conscious, throbbing stretches of nothingness. Post-transplant life becomes, on Sharon’s more dramatic days, the equivalent of a drive across the desert: flat, lifeless, and pushing ever-onward toward a destination that never seems to get closer.

The milemarkers on the journey are her checkups at the transplant center. Twice a week for the first three weeks after she’s discharged, Sharon submits to becoming a human pincushion, enduring daylong tests of her new heart. It’s on these visits she’s able to exercise her gratitude, waiting for an opening in the cath lab as patients just learning of their hearts’ ailments sit stone-jawed or watery-eyed while nurses wheel them back and forth.

Even so, the appointments involve a battery of questions that reinforce Sharon’s own physical fragility and leave her mood sinking. Yes, she’s eating. Yes, she’s taking her pills. Yes,  _ all _ of them. Yes, she’s moving around every day. No, she still isn’t able to do so without pain. No to smoking, drinking, overexertion. She will continue to avoid pushing and pulling motions. She will steer clear of anyone who may be sick, including her fantastic step-grandsons who’ve been battling bronchitis. She will go to an ER — or, more likely, be dragged to one by her husband — should she feel feverish or lightheaded or over-exerted.

Sharon can’t escape the idea that as she should be celebrating the extension of her life, she’s mostly struck by the restriction of it. Andy, thankfully, understands. He treats his role during these appointments as distractor-in-chief as much as her primary caregiver. As she pulls within herself with cross-armed annoyance, he keeps enough cool to pepper the doctors and specialists with counter-questions, nailing down the timelines she fears too much to ask about.

She’s able to track the checkups by their dwindling frequency. Six in the first three weeks, three more in the three following weeks, then three in the next month and a half. Emily returns to New York after checkup number one, Ricky departs after the third. Rusty gets back to the DA’s office after four. Andy reluctantly goes back on duty after the sixth.

Sharon spends her first few solo days at home catching up on chores that had gone undone (or not done to her standards) as she recuperated. She paces herself, ever-conscious of the fatigue that sets upon her with ridiculous quickness. In deference to her healing breastbone, she carries laundry in small armloads to the washer and back from the dryer. Mid-morning and afternoon naps are still necessities. But, before long, the living and dining rooms are dustless, her side of the closet is pristinely organized, and the kitchen sparkles.

She finishes her to-do list before checkup number seven hits.

——— 

In the weeks of her recovery, Sharon becomes more familiar with Lyft than she ever would have planned. Driving is out of the question until her incision is fully healed, but, despite her doctor’s repeated hints that she should stay close to home, she has no intention of sitting around like an invalid. She might not be chasing down murderers or setting out on a road trip, but the little pink icon on her phone at least allows her to go out for last-minute groceries, or to the Grove to buy a birthday present, or to CVS for Aleve and hydrogen peroxide.

It also allows for a hint of much-needed independence. When Andy mentions requesting sick leave to take her to her seventh post-transplant appointment, Sharon waves him off. 

“I can take a Lyft over to Cedars, don’t worry.”

“You’re sure?” His brow furrows. “I don’t mind—”

She interrupts with a smile. “I’m sure. I’ve gotten used to this whole not-driving thing.”

His only response is to nod, concern still written across his features as he turns his attention back to his dinner. 

Given this reaction, and knowing her husband, Sharon shouldn’t be so surprised when a shadow casts across her paperback and a cup appears in her peripheral vision as she waits for her turn in the cath lab two days later. 

“Can I interest you in a sugar-free toasted almond decaf skim latte?”

She lifts her head, brow lifted. “What are you—”

Before she can so much as finish her sentence, Andy says, “I’m chasing down leads.” The well-worn lie leaves the corner of his mouth upturned, forever irresistible.

Still, Sharon does her best to stay level as she takes the cup from him and he settles into the chair beside her. “Something tells me Williams wouldn’t be very happy to see you here.”

“Yeah, well,” an angry sigh rushes from his mouth, “I can’t say I give a damn  _ what _ Williams thinks.”

She reaches over to squeeze his knee. Captain Neil Williams, with his irreverence and brash nature had, somewhat ironically, clashed with Andy from day one. Two weeks into their working relationship and, from what she’s heard, neither of them show any signs of backing down. Then again, the rest of the squad is on Andy’s side in this particular battle. In the few opportunities she’s had to check in with them, she’s seen no indication of their approaches toward Williams warming. They’re a tough group to crack, yes, but Sharon had at least inched her way into the circle by the time she’d spent a few weeks in the Murder Room.

Andy takes a draw of his own coffee and slouches further into his chair. “He’s got nothing for me to do anyway, so it’s not like he has any right to tie me to my chair.”

“Other than the fact he’s your boss,” Sharon teases.

“You gotta keep reminding me?” He groans. “That’s half the reason I left the office.”

“And the other half?”

“Provenza got sick of me checking my phone and told me to just get the hell over here already.”

She pats his leg before moving to pack up the book she obviously won’t be reading now. Leaning over to slide it back into her purse, she says, “You don’t need to be nervous. These tests are normal, now.”

When she straightens, it’s to find Andy giving her a steady stare. “They’re gonna cut off a piece of someone else’s heart, which now lives in your chest, to make sure it’s still functioning.”

There’s no downplaying the process with him. He knows each step and expected outcome like the back of his hand, having devoted himself as her caregiver. “The  _ new _ normal,” Sharon clarifies, with a grin meant to ease away his tension. 

He nods. “What’s the word so far?”

Her morning appointment with the transplant nurse had kicked off at nine, starting her through the maze of tests and meetings that always end with her afternoon biopsy. “Alonzo said everything is looking normal, from his end. He should have the results of my blood work by the end of the day.”

Andy rubs at his neck, “He’s okay with your weight now?”

“It’s still a little low. But getting better.” She sips at her latte. It’s a welcome treat, and despite her desire to get through a clinic visit independently, she’s glad both for it and the company of the man who brought it. 

“Huh.” His mouth curls behind his coffee cup. “I still say what you need is some pasta therapy. I can make that happen…” He trails off suggestively.

“No, Andy.” The admonishment comes on a laugh. Sharon’s already had to turn down the offer — an Italian cure-all, as he describes it — more times that she can count. As it is, her weight dropped most severely prior to the transplant, thanks to a month’s worth of flu-like symptoms and the three-way stress of her diagnosis, the wedding, and the intensive cases they’d been working. When eating became a physical challenge following the surgery, the scale turned downward a bit more.  “All I need is time.”

“Pasta would be more fun, though.”

“No doubt.” She hums into her drink, recalling one of the dozens of pamphlets they’d been sent home with,  _ Eating for Your New Heart _ . “But what about all of those healthy habits we’re supposed to be building?”

He scoffs. “Pasta can be healthy.”

“Sure, it  _ can _ be.” She’s about to point out that she’s watched him prepare several different pasta-based dishes that would make her dietitian cry, but a green-scrubbed nurse steps into the lobby before she can get there.

“Flynn?”

Andy’s mouth tips upward, and she anticipates some variation of the charmingly lame joke that comes next: “Either that’s you, or my doctor’s been keeping stuff from me.”

Sharon rolls her eyes as she rises from her seat, ever-mindful to avoid pushing down on the armrests as she goes. Before she’s up, Andy bends down to lift her bag from the floor, a maybe-romantic gesture that’s just cloying enough to leave her quirking her brow.

He ignores the hint of her annoyance. “Ready?”

“As I ever am,” she says, making her way to the doorway.

Once the nurse shows them to a pre-op/recovery room and Sharon is in a gown with a IV stuck into her arm, uncomfortably settled onto a stretcher, her nerves ratchet a few notches tighter. Andy rolls his shirt cuffs up his arms, having shed his jacket for the day, and scoots his chair nearer to her perch. 

“I need a distraction,” she sighs.

“That  _ is _ my specialty, as you know.”

She runs her fingers along his tie, a calming quirk she won’t shed as long as he continues to wear them. “How are things at work?”

A crease forms between his brows. “That’s not a very good distraction.”

“It is for me.” Sharon lightly tugs at the length of silk — the pink and green striped one, a sentimental favorite. “Please? What’s going on with your new case?”

He lays it out for her, hamming up the commentary for maximum effect and embellishing more than a little as he describes Williams’ missteps. The squad has had hardly any downtime since Andy returned to duty, and it’s starting to show. 

“I get the feeling Wes hasn’t had a solid night of sleep all week,” he says, having covered the basics, “and poor Amy is busting her ass for recognition she’s never gonna get.”

They both look up when the curtain moves aside, opening the room to a small group of medical staff.

“Sharon, we’re ready to take you back.”

This is always the worst part. No matter how still Andy is able to keep his expression, she’s able to see the panic deep in his eyes, every time.

This time he plays it nonchalant for their audience, “Oh, okay,” before leaning in, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll see you in a few.”

Sharon’s fingers tighten along his. “I love you.” It comes out a little rougher, a little more desperate than she’d wanted.

“I love you, too.” His voice is soft near her ear. He pulls back, squeezing her hand before resting it at her waist. “Just a normal test, right?”

There’s no tease in the question. It’s a reaffirmation, one she needs. “Right.”

Andy settles into his chair with a nod toward the staff. With that, she’s off and rolling down the hall, around the corner, and into a wide, technology-stuffed room. Nurses attach nodes and cuffs and who-knows-what else to Sharon’s body with well-practiced choreography. They’re talkative in a shallow way, commenting on the weather or the barrage of pre-primary political television ads as they arrange her on the table and swab antiseptic onto her neck.

With each trip into the lab, the process becomes a little less odd, and she gets a little more at ease with becoming a mostly-conscious ragdoll for a half hour. If nothing else, the catheterization physician, Sam Tozier, has handsome blue eyes and a lulling English accent that seems to aid whatever they add to her IV in here. By the time he settles into the stool near her head, he’s been chatting away around the room for several minutes.

He grins down at her above a navy blue mask that seems perfectly chosen to make his eyes brighten. “Ah, if it isn’t Mrs. Flynn. One of my most favorite patients.”

He’s just about the only person who calls her this with consistency, thanks mostly to Sharon’s reluctance to have much of a conversation during what was, initially, a stressful procedure. Now it seems a little odd to tell him to refer to her differently and, to be honest, it still gives her a little thrill. She doesn’t stand on formality with many people, especially when she’s barely allowed to leave home, so she’ll take her kicks where she can get them.

She can’t resist taking a swing at his greeting, though. “I bet you say that to all the ladies, Doctor.”

“Guilty as charged.” Tozier looks up to a monitor across the table, getting down to business. “To be fair, I mean it every single time.”

When he asks for the scalpel, Sharon closes her eyes. She might not dread these biopsies anymore, but that doesn’t mean she needs to watch. They’ve become familiar enough that she can anticipate the next sensation based on the medical jargon tossed between the staff. And as long as their voices don’t rise into urgency, she figures it’s all proceeding as expected.

She’s able to drop into something close to sleep this time. Before she knows it, a warm hand presses gauze against the side of her neck, stemming the flow of blood from the incision site. Sharon finds a friendly-looking nurse smiling at her. “All finished! Let’s get you up.”

The lab is run with the efficiency of an assembly line, with patients moving in and out as swiftly as possible. Sharon would admire it more if she wasn’t one of the products. As it is, getting in and out of a lying position without aggravating her sternum has become a production, even without her head spinning from the pre-op drugs. It takes a near-embarrassing amount of guidance to get her from the table to the stretcher. 

But get there she does, leaning against the bed’s elevated back, keeping her neck upright and unbleeding. Tozier waggles his fingers in her direction as an orderly pushes her out of the lab. Back in Sharon’s temporary room, Andy stands to make room for the stretcher and IV stand. Once she’s locked into place, they’re left alone again within seconds as the entire production moves onto the next patient. 

Andy settles onto the edge of the mattress. “All good?”

“Mm, as far as I can tell.” Sharon winces at the weight of her tongue, fighting against her as she forms the words. “Can you hand me my coffee?”

He complies, but says, “I can’t guarantee it’s still warm.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She sips at the liquid, happy to find it’s still drinkable. “So, you were telling me about Amy.”

He grins as he takes her free hand in his. “Can’t sneak anything past you.”

“Definitely not.” With her vision still fuzzy and her head still light, she lets her eyes fall closed and her head rest back against the stretcher. “How is she doing?”

Andy’s thumb traces a pattern between and around the ridges of her knuckles. “She’s annoyed. Kinda like me, she feels like she could be doing more.” He sighs. “Unlike me, she’s actually  _ cleared  _ to do more. Williams is giving her all the grunt work that involves leaving the office.”

“He’s not warming to her at all?”

“Not that I can tell. Actually...it almost seems like he’s ignoring her.”

“I’m guessing he’s picked a favorite, though.”

“Well, he’s definitely been pulling Wes into a lot of interviews. How’d you know?”

Sharon sucks on her teeth. “Divide and conquer.”

“Right.” A long breath rushes from him. “I hate thinking that he might actually get away with it.”

“It’s only been a few weeks, Andy. It’s hard to tell how things might change.”

“The only change I want is his ass out of that office.”

“Mm, but if that  _ doesn’t _ happen, maybe he’ll break.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, “but he’s already set fire to a few bridges.”

“I bet you thought the same thing about me, once upon a time.”

“Nah,” he lifts her hand to his lips. “You always had redeeming qualities.”

She pries her eyes open to give him the full brunt of her skepticism. He frowns. “What?”

With a shake of her head, Sharon swings her legs off the side of the bed, levering into a sitting position. “I’m not sure I want to know the details on that.”

Rather than argue the point, Andy asks, “You ready for your glasses?”

“Please.” 

He pulls them from his shirt pocket and hands them over. Once she’s slid them onto her nose and finger-combed her hair back into something like order, she’s able to catch a smirk turning his mouth. “See? How are you gonna get caught up on all the drama if I don’t come keep you company?”

She leans into his side, feeling the truth in his question. “Mm, you  _ are _ an invaluable source of intelligence.”

“Ah, and now we get to the heart of why you married me.”

She frowns. “No, that’s not it.”

“No?”

After bringing her lips to his, she pulls back a little and laughs into her point. “You’re  _ also _ a really good kisser.” 

“Uh-huh.” He, of course, views this as a challenge, urging her to part her lips into something that is a little less than appropriate for a public setting. They’re still using the newlywed card, though, and so neither are particularly bothered when the curtain swooshes open. 

“Oops, sorry!” A familiar figure appears in the space, briefly holding a folder over his eyes.

“You’re fine, Alonzo.” Andy offers his hand to the nurse, who gives it a firm shake.

“Didn’t think I was going to see you today, Mr. Flynn.”

“Yeah, well, what can I say? I missed your company. It’s been two whole weeks, after all.”

Alonzo throws his head back with a bark of laughter. “That’s true!” He pulls on a pair of gloves. “Okay, Sharon, let’s check out that incision.”

She lifts her chin, allowing him better access to the gauze taped along the side of her neck. “The procedure seemed to go faster this time.”

“Mhmm. Doctor Tozier will know your veins from top to bottom by the time you’re through with your post-transplant gauntlet.” His gloved finger edges around the small cut. “Any chest pain or pressure?”

“No,” she answers.

“Feeling short of breath at all?”

“No.”

“Okay then,” Alonzo steps back from the stretcher with a wide smile, his amber eyes shining. “You’re all done for another two weeks.”

Andy’s eyes track him to the counter, where he jots in the folder he’d carried into the room. “Everything’s looking okay, then?”

“You missed all the good stuff, Mr. Flynn.” Alonzo winks at Sharon. “I’ll leave it to your wife to fill in the details.” He holds a card out to her. “And I’ll see you, ma’am, at 9 AM sharp on the 19th.”

“Thank you, Alonzo.”

Once they’re alone again, Andy arranges her clothes along the foot of the bed. “Is Beijing Express good for dinner?” 

“Yeah.” She glances over to find him repacking her purse, charmingly allowing her a small amount of privacy as she re-dresses. “Do you need to get back to the office?”

“Uh, I dunno,” he hedges.

“Andy—”

He cuts her off with an exasperated sigh. “I’ll call Provenza once we get home.”

“Okay.” Sharon isn’t sure she’s ready to discuss with him how dire their finances could get, should he manage to get fired, but the point is approaching. 

With her jeans buttoned, she turns her back to Andy. “Can I get your help with this?”

“Of course.” He steps close, fumbles with the lower set of ties until he’s growling, “Why do I always knot these damned things so tight?” 

She snorts. “I don’t know. You should have enough practice by now.” The first ties fall free and he starts on the higher set. As his grumbling starts anew, Sharon reflects on his earlier description of Amy, scrabbling for respect she’ll likely never receive from Williams. “Do you think it would help or hurt for me to make an appearance in the Murder Room?”

“Ah, well, I guess that depends on who you’re worried about.”

“All of you. I don’t know Williams, so his reaction wouldn’t bother me.”

Andy grunts as the ties finally fall free. “You might change your mind after meeting him.”

“I doubt it.” She pulls the gown from her shoulders and holds her bra in place for him to clasp. “I’d like to catch up with everyone.”

“I’ll tell you what,” he says, guiding her around by the shoulders to take over the task of buttoning her shirt. “Next time we’re headed out for a squad dinner, I’ll call you. You can pop into one of your Lyfts and come meet us.”

“Okay,” she grins, tipping onto her toes to kiss him. “I’ll take that deal.”


	2. Byegones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A team meal leaves Sharon with some inspiration and a plan.

Sharon’s chance to catch up with the Major Crimes squad comes earlier than she anticipated. She’s curled up on the couch the following Monday afternoon, threatening to nod off as she tries to read her _New Yorker_ , when Andy comes through the front door. His appearance, unexpected as it is, sends her brow lifting. “ _You’re_ home early.”

Her greeting carries with the smallest of fears that Williams had thrown him out of the office. _At least he’s not carrying a boxful of his desk tchotchkes, though._

“Yeah, the squad’s headed out for food,” Andy says. At her answering blank look he adds, “I told you I’d let you know.”

She narrows her eyes. “You said you were going to call. For _dinner_.”

“Well, uh,” he frowns, glancing at his watch. Sharon practically sees his gears cranking as he whips up some kind of logic, “It’s past three, so we can’t hardly call it ‘lunch’ anymore.” When she rolls her eyes, he continues, “We got rolled out to a couple bodies up in the park,” he crooks a thumb toward the patio, and scrubby hills beyond it, “so everyone’s been up there since this morning. Provenza decided he was in the mood for Royal Siam, since they’re in the neighborhood, and he told me to meet them.” He nods at her. “So…”

“So?”

“So, if you wanna go…”

He _cannot_ be serious. “I’m…” She flicks her hand toward her outfit — one of his well-worn button-ups and a pair of leggings. “I can’t go out looking like this!”

“Sharon, these people are family. They don’t care what you’re wearing.”

She unfolds herself from the couch. “ _I_ care.” Nonetheless, she can’t pass up the opportunity to catch up with everyone. Even if the timing is ridiculous. “Give me,” she shakes her head, beelining toward the bedroom, “five minutes.”

“Babe—”

“Five minutes!”

“Right. Sure.”

The sigh of a response barely makes it to where Sharon stands at the door of their closet, searching for a quick, workable outfit. Being restricted from lifting her arms overhead has a way of limiting her choices in fashion, as does the long, red incision line striping down the middle of her chest. This factor _maybe_ stands on equal footing with her physical condition when it comes to the trials of venturing beyond the condo.

It also ensures that she takes a few more than five minutes to pair a black A-line dress with an appropriately camouflaging scarf and matching light blue jacket. Black flats are a fast option, but hair and makeup are another matter. She ends up pinning the front of her hair back and dampening the rest to air dry in waves. With a possibly record-setting application of foundation, blush, mascara, and lipstick, she’s set.

She catches her bedside alarm clock as she heads for the living room, swinging a small purse over her shoulder. _Twenty minutes_. Not five, but not too bad, all things considered.

Even so, she finds Andy sprawled into an armchair. His head lolls against its back and his legs stretch long at the front, giving the impression he’s in the process of melting out of his seat. His eyes track her, but he doesn’t move to get up. “That was a long five minutes.”

Sharon rolls her eyes at his jab and counters with her own. “One of these days, you’re gonna get stuck sitting like that.”

“Nah.” But he winces as he pries himself upward, betraying his cool facade. He rolls out his shoulders. “You ready?”

With a smug grin, she says, “I _am_.”

“Good.” At this, he appears to be genuinely pleased, wrapping an arm around her back and pressing his lips to her cheek. “Then let’s get outta here, before Provenza starts calling.”

Thai Town is close enough that they arrive at the restaurant before provoking his partner’s wrath, but long enough to stoke Sharon’s appetite, which has been hit-or-miss since her surgery. Alonzo had suggested she stick to a bland diet early in her recovery, in an effort to avoid anything that could trigger an upset stomach or heartburn. Now, several weeks into that diet, the prospect of bold Thai flavors leaves her mouth watering.

And, while home cooking has its charms, especially when Andy takes over the kitchen, their relationship was founded over long work-filled days that bled into nights spent chatting over takeout. Revisiting one of their favorites, after what seems like ages, sparks a hint of just-removed nostalgia.

Sharon catches Andy’s eye as they climb out of the car. “I hope you’re interested in splitting a papaya salad.”

He chuckles, parroting her tone when he says, “I hope you brought your Tums.”

“Of course.” She grins as he pulls the restaurant door open for her. “Have you ever known me to be anything less than prepared?”

Provenza’s annoyance flows from the lobby like a freight train. “Flynn, where the hell did you—” His face slackens, then warms, when he catches sight of Sharon stepping around Andy and through the door. “Well, Commander!”

The greeting draws the others’ attention, and their chorus of welcomes leaves her cheeks warming. After receiving a gentle hug from Amy, she says, “Hi everyone, sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Yeah,” Andy grits, “it’s not like we can go to lunch without—” He bites off the rest of his point when he catches Sharon’s glare, then grasps for an alternate. “Uh, without me…” He pats his back pocket. “Having to run back to the condo for my wallet.”

“Uh _-huh_ ,” Provenza fixes him with a long, silencing look before turning to Sharon. “Commander, how are you feeling?”

“All things considered, I’m doing great.”

The hostess gathers an armful of menus and beckons the group further into the restaurant. Mike falls into step beside Sharon, characteristically jumping right into the particulars. “Have they settled you into a maintenance dose of immunosuppressants yet?”

“Um, not yet, I don’t think. But they’ve been lowering the dosages.”

He frowns. “And you’re not dealing with any side effects?”

“None.” She rests her palm on his arm, aiming to reassure. “I’m practically back to normal.” Which is true, in a physical sense. She still isn’t sure what to do with the rest.

But that isn’t what he’s asking.

Still, Andy touches on this when he says, “She’s got everything except the car keys.”

“And those are coming,” Sharon adds as she claims the chair next to Amy. The group settles in around the table and, before long, good-natured taunts begin flying in Wes’s direction. He’d apparently made some kind of misstep with an SID officer at their scene.

“The string was there for a _reason_ , boy-o,” Provenza says.

“If it’s not tape…” Wes holds out his hands with an exaggerated shrug.

Mike’s eyes take on a particular shine. “Remind me to tie a bell around your neck next time we roll out to an outdoor scene.”

“Yeah,” Julio’s gaze goes far-off, “that way we can find him after the pissed-off techs drag him into the woods.”

Everything seems so _normal_ , it takes Sharon a moment to realize she doesn’t know what they’re talking about. She is almost able to picture the scene, the body lying prone and half-exposed to the elements, a swarm of officers and technicians collecting clues in the surroundings. A pang of loss rolls through her when she’s unable to fill in the particulars. She smiles through the jokes, though, knowing that asking them to fill her in would only hurt more.  

Through the meal, she can’t miss Amy’s lack of input. It isn’t like her to be so withdrawn, especially when it comes to giving Wes (or anyone else, really) a hard time. Her silence sets Sharon on edge. So, when the topic of conversation at the other side of the table shifts toward shop talk, she turns to Amy and asks, quietly, “How’s everything going in the office?”

After her eyes flick over the rest of the squad, Amy shakes her head, a grin softening the movement. “I’m guessing Lieutenant Flynn filled you in?”

“I’ve heard pieces from him, yes.” Sharon leans into the table, resting her chin in her hand. “I’m particularly curious for your read of the situation, though.”

“Wow, uh,” Amy shakes her head with a heavy sigh and stirs her straw around the sides of her cup. She mulls over her answer for several seconds before saying, “Well...I think Captain Williams has a very specific picture of how things should be, to say the least.”

“And how do you fit into that picture?”

“Yeah,” her eyes bore into Sharon’s. “I’m not sure about that.”

“Are you worried about your career prospects?”

She nearly snorts. “Compared to three months ago?” The words send a stab of regret through Sharon’s fresh heart. It must show, because Amy stammers, “Uh, I mean—”

Sharon holds up a palm. “No, I understand what you’re saying.”

“I mean, I think I could probably get used to the way things are, if it didn’t feel like the Captain is sidelining me from the kind of work he’s giving the others.” Her eyes travel toward her squadmates. “And I know they want to help, but,” Amy leans in, her voice dropping further, “Chuck and the Lieutenants, and the other guys, they don’t get what’s happening.”

“No, they don’t.” Sharon quirks her lips when her straightforward agreement is met with a lifted brow. “No matter how much they want to help, no matter how much they might try to understand, they’ll never have to walk in your shoes, Amy.” She lets her eyes travel around the table. “And it can be incredibly lonely, I know.”

Alone, surrounded by her brothers. It’s a situation Sharon knows all too well. At least Amy’s coworkers are sympathetic to her plight — or, at least, they’d _better_ be. Her own experience wasn’t always so friendly.

Amy says, “I still can’t believe, in a way, that I’ve never had to deal with anything like this before. Not in the Army, not in the LAPD.” She shakes her head. “I guess that makes me lucky.”

“No, Amy.” Sharon squeezes her hand where it rests on the table. “No one should have to go through this. Not at _any_ stage of her career.” Amy’s eyes drop, and the near-embarrassment in the look spurs Sharon to tell her own story. Or at least part of it. “In my case, it started early. I was just a few months out of the Academy when I first had to use my weapon. When I _dared_ to have an emotional response to shooting someone, my FTO tried to get me to quit. He told me, for months on end, that I didn’t have what it would take to be a cop spread the word far and wide, until most of my division was in on it.”

“That’s _awful_.”

“I got through, obviously. But I tried to hold on, in a sense, to how low those moments made me feel.” Sharon crooks a grin. “And then, later, when I was in IA and had a say in how the rules were written and enforced, I made a point to call out behavior that cheapened the role of women in this department,” she can’t help but sneak a glance at Provenza, who’s deep in conversation with Mike at the other end of the table, “even when it made me unpopular.”

Amy follows her gaze with a frown. “I can't even imagine what that must have been like.”

“I’d like to say that I didn’t mind all that much, but... I hadn’t reached that point without growing a thick skin.” She shrugs, letting her grin widen into a smile. “In fact, I used to keep a trophy list of all the rude nicknames I racked up along the way.”

Amy doesn’t see the humor in this, given how her queasy expression shifts toward a glare, so Sharon continues: “I was happy do it, if only because…” she breaks off, shaking her head as the weight of the conversation settles back onto her head. “So much of the work I did was with the goal that _you,_ ” she rests her palm on Amy’s shoulder, “wouldn’t have to fight the same tired battles I fought. And now...” With a squeeze, Sharon drops her hand back to her lap. “I can’t help but feel, in a way, as if I’ve failed.”

And maybe it’s this facet — more so than knowing a tough, capable officer she respects is under the yoke of a sexist idiot — that keeps Sharon tense on the subject. Even though she figured he’d dropped out of her conversation, Andy’s fingertips begin tracing soothing circles at her shoulder as Amy opens her mouth to argue.

“No, Commander, you haven’t—”

“Someday, Amy…” Sharon interrupts with another, now-tighter smile, “someday, _you_ will be a newly retired commander,” she grins against the scoff she senses at the concept, and pushes the point, “ _at least_ . And you’ll look back onto your career, counting up the wins and the losses, and then you _might_ understand what I mean. I hope you don’t, but you might. And if that happens, God willing, you can call me up, and we’ll talk it through.”

Amy nods, though her skepticism shows through the motion. Either way, she doesn’t argue the point further. Their conversation is halted by the chime of a phone at the opposite end of the table.

Prompted by the noise, Provenza groans. “Oh God, it’s Captain Oblivious.”

Sharon turns and lifts an eyebrow in his direction, causing him to redirect, “Uh, I mean, it’s our _highly esteemed_ boss,” his eyes go wide, “wondering where the hell we are.”

Following a sip of her tea, Sharon says, “I was just going to compliment you on your wordplay, Lieutenant.”

This prompts a round of chuckles. Julio leans forward onto the table, catching Sharon’s eye. “You might not want to encourage him, ma’am.”

She raises her shoulder in a half-shrug, “I figure I should do my part to keep the Lieutenant in prime sparring form, just to make sure your new CO gets the _full_ experience.”

Provenza lifts his water glass in her direction. “It’s only fair.” He pushes his chair back, signalling the end of their meal. “I suppose we should get back to minding the lowlifes of LA.”

Everyone gathers their bills and wallets, following his lead toward the cashier. In the midst of this procession, Sharon can’t help but wonder whether the meal left the rest of them with the same sense of wholeness she’d felt. They're still together most every day, after all. She’s the only one missing.

It’s not long before she gets part of an answer. After paying his bill, Provenza makes his way over to Sharon. “You know, Commander, if you want to come back as a consultant, I’ll personally kick Williams’ ass out of your office. You could do everything you used to do, _and_ get paid better for it.”

Sharon laughs, equally relieved and amused by his plan. It’s as close to an  ‘I miss you’ as she’ll get from him. “Something tells me Chief Pope might object to that.”

With a snort, he swings his hands out to his sides. “Even better!” Still, he pats her arm before turning to Andy. “You’re not off the hook for the evening, Flynn.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Andy waves him toward the door while slipping his wallet back into his pocket. “I gotta get back to the office and keep my desk from floating away, I know.”

Sharon waves as Julio, Mike, and Wes head outside. But the sight of Amy following a few steps behind reminds her that she’d forgotten to stress the ultimate point of their earlier talk. “Amy, hang on a second.”

She pauses at the door, waiting for Sharon to catch up. Andy holds back, taking his time unwrapping a toothpick at the hostesses’ stand.

“You call me if you hit your limit, or if his behavior starts interfering with your work.” Sharon levels a stare at her, stressing the truth in the offer. “I still have connections.”

Amy forces a smile. “I will, Commander. Thank you.” She nods at Andy as she heads into the parking lot.

“I’ll see you back downtown in a few, Sykes.” Andy steps forward to hold the door open for Sharon. Once they’re outside, he squints toward the horizon. “Well that was a revealing trip down memory lane.”

“What do you mean?”

“That, uh, maybe I should apologize.” He shrugs. “As a partially reformed asshole, I mean.” At the silent question Sharon aims at him, he says, “I’m sure I came up with at least a couple of the names on that list of yours.”

“Mmm, at least.” She steps closer when his eyes drop to the pavement, smoothing her fingers along the lapels of his jacket. “You’ve redeemed yourself a hundred times over, Andy.”

Wearing a suspicious grimace, he asks, “You sure?”

She presses a quick peck to the toothpickless corner of his mouth. “I am.”

His jaw shifts, but he doesn't argue. Instead, he says, "Well, I guess I'm one of the grown-ups in this situation." He nods toward Amy’s Charger as it pulls out of the parking lot. “How can I help her?”

What Sharon wouldn’t have given to hear that question from some of her own coworkers, decades ago. She wraps her arm around his, tugging him toward the car, ever thankful she married such a great guy. Even if he _has_ occasionally gone out of his way to hide said greatness.

“I’d say...check in with her, let her know she can tell you the truth. Defend her _without_ coddling her.” She grins at his frown, knowing that tip would be hard for him to follow. “Suggest her for prominent roles on cases. Give her work that expands her skillset. And show Williams you’re not going to tolerate his behavior.”

“Oh, I don’t think that last one’s an issue.”

“ _Preferably_ in a way that won’t get you fired,” she clarifies.

Andy scoffs, “I’d like to see him try.”

Sharon offers a neutral hum as they reach the car. This prompts him to say, “That’ll hopefully take care of Amy. What about Williams, though?”

The same question has been buzzing around Sharon like a pesky fly. _What about him_? The squad could indefinitely treat the symptoms of his behavior — like everyone else apparently has — and never fight the rot at the core of it. Williams has burrowed himself into a position of comfortable control, so anyone who pokes at him risks becoming a target of his wrath. Given what she’s heard of the man, he wouldn’t blink before using his authority in retaliation.

No, whomever sets to work on Williams will have to be well outside his reach. Knowing PSB procedures inside and out, Sharon suspects his ability to command Major Crimes is a sign that any official accusations against him are less than clear-cut. If they haven’t pursued him yet, it could be that the IA investigators can’t devote enough manpower to untangling the threads of his behavior. And if they _have_ pursued him…

Well, she’d be incredibly curious to see the files.

 _Incredibly_.

Andy’s fingers curl at her hip. “Sharon?”

She meets his furrowed brow with a grin. “Just leave him to me.”


	3. The Finer Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different:
> 
> Note the rating change. Literally nothing important happens in this chapter, unless you think a married couple actually having a healthy sexual relationship is important (like I do). 
> 
> Here goes nothing...

Sharon finds herself dreaming that the neighbors are renovating. Buzzing away, the whirr of a power drill through the drywall and plaster and rebar and God knows what else between here and there. The sound isn’t exactly intrusive, but it’s noticeable enough.

She opens her eyes into darkness, with Andy’s arm slipping away from her waist. _And in the middle of the night, no less._

It isn’t until his side of the bed becomes illuminated in a cool electronic glow that Sharon fits the noise into her surroundings.

“Yeah?” Andy’s voice flows half-mumbled into his phone. A sigh chases the word as he shifts further toward the wall. “Okay, right.”

This last comes sharper, prompting Sharon to reach over and smooth her palm down the ridge of his spine. He glances back at her, then rubs at his eyes. “Got it...Yes, sir.”

He lowers the phone from his ear and jabs at it several times. Once its screen goes dark, Andy nearly slams the phone onto his nightstand before flopping onto his back. “God, I hate that guy.” His voice comes obstructed behind the friction of his palms over his face. “Two in the damned morning, and he wants me to go babysit RACR.”

“What’s going on?”

“Some gangbanger’s been going around Van Nuys, shooting his mouth off.” He pulls the blankets higher onto his chest. “He supposedly caught some lead tonight.”

Sharon frowns into the dark. “That’s a major crime?”

“I guess it is when one of your old partners is the head of the Gang Unit.”

“That sounds like a blatant misallocation of resources.”

With a dry chuckle, Andy presses a kiss to her shoulder. “Babe, it’s way too early for words that long.” He settles onto his side and slings his arm across her waist, where it was before they were so rudely awakened.

“Are you going back to sleep?”

“Yep.”

“Andy,” she sighs, once again weighing their mutual dislike of the current situation in Major Crimes against his continued employment. When he doesn’t answer or otherwise respond, she works more volume into her voice. “Andrew.”

“ _What?_ ” Even half-muffled, his voice still cuts.

“Don’t you think you should get up?”

“I set my alarm for a half-hour,” he mumbles. “You don’t need to full-name me.”

She rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. “Is getting up going to be easier then?”

“Maybe.”

His voice is weighed down with sleep again. It’d be a waste of breath to argue over it now. Sharon rolls toward him, reaches over to run her fingers through the hair at his temple. Andy has a charming — and enviable — ability to fall asleep almost any time and place he wants. In contrast, she’d be up and on with her day if he wasn’t nestled next to her.

This is a new habit of his. When Sharon started sharing a bed with him, she quickly found that a ringing phone in the middle of the night was enough to get him up and going, distractions be damned. In fact, the very first night he slept in this room — hers then, theirs now — Provenza called at one AM to announce a rollout. Andy was up and out of bed before he realized he wasn’t in his own room. Two loud thumps and a slew of curses later, she’d woken enough to reach over and switch on her bedside lamp.

She found him in the corner of the room, half hunched over and grasping his foot. The sudden light left him blinking at her in pained confusion for several seconds before he mumbled, “Oh. Right,” and dropped onto the bench at the foot of her bed.

The memory leaves her exhaling a quiet laugh, even as the reminder of that night’s _other_ activities gives her an idea. She rolls onto her back and reaches toward the top drawer of her nightstand. With a minimal amount of fumbling, she squeezes a bit of silky liquid onto her fingers and spreads it with the underside of her thumb.

Turning back to Andy, she uses her other hand to clear a path under a the sheet and into his pajama bottoms. She curls her slickened fingers around the supple skin of his shaft and begins a slow, teasing slide up and down his length.

_Now_ he’s awake, and staring at her with his eyes wide. She stretches on a sweet, innocent smile. “I thought maybe you could use some encouragement.”

“Sure,” he groans, letting his head angle back, “encouraging me to stay _in bed_.”

They’ve had far too few opportunities to connect, on an intimate level, over the past few months. Zero, to be exact, since she’d first fallen ill with what they’d thought was the flu. Her exhaustion was the culprit for a long while. Then it was the fragile state of her heart, followed by her cracked-open breastbone and matching incision. They hadn’t even been able to enjoy their wedding night in the usual fashion.

And, frankly, Sharon had been looking forward to some _truly_ guilt-free sex. Not that their unmarried status had stopped them before...it’d barely slowed them down, once they (okay... _she_ ) admitted they were in a real, adult relationship. But decades spent soaking in Catholic dogma left her with deep, if faint, echoes of lawlessness every time she fell into bed with Andy.  

Now they’re united in holy matrimony, free and clear in the eyes of God and the Church, and she’s been relegated to health-related celibacy ever since.

But not for much longer. She should be cleared following her checkup next week, and after that? She has plans.

As for now, she’s enjoying the vibrations of Andy’s breathy groans as she traces a path of nip-kisses up his throat and he hardens in her hand. His reactions are enough to spark a fire within her, and raises the possibility that this might not be a one-sided pursuit.

“Wait, babe.” His fingers curl around her wrist, stopping her motion. He gingerly lifts her hand.

“Hmm?”

“Can you be on top?”

Sharon frowns, her eyes flitting toward the ceiling as she recalls the long list of post-op sternal healing procedures Alonzo gave her when she came home from the hospital. Pushing and pulling are high on the list of don’ts, but so is the application of pressure on her chest. This rules out any position with Andy on top, which is what they both historically prefer. But now that her energy and stamina are coming back —

Before she can reach a conclusion, Andy takes action, turn-lifting her into his lap as he backs up against the headboard. The surprise of it sends an embarrassing squeak from her mouth, and the hand she lifts to stifle the sound arrives too late.

He laughs a “Shhhh,” into her hair as she mutes her own giggles in the cotton of his t-shirt. They’re either skilled or lucky when it comes to not being overheard from the next room, given they haven’t received any mortified comments from Rusty thus far. Even so, Andy has a running joke about installing soundproof panels in their room. Better safe than sorry (very, very sorry) is the name of the game.   

With her laughter mostly contained, she swats his chest and half-whispers. “You didn’t wait for me to answer!”

He shrugs as his thumbs hook inside the band of her pajama pants and slide them downward, taking her panties with them. “If it was a problem, you would’ve said something right away.” His voice matches her volume, but in a register that keeps blood thrumming toward her core.

“You’re irredeemable.” Sharon says this even as she bends one leg, then the other, to disentangle herself from her bottoms. She’s no more than recovered her balance when Andy moves to pull her shirt — which is actually one of _his_ shirts, a full-coverage crewneck — off.

She counters the motion with a downward yank of her own and a whispered, “Don’t.”

His mouth falls open for a moment before he says, “It doesn’t bother me, you know.”

“I know.” She counters his surprise with a quirk of her lips. The unspoken other half of the sentiment is that it bothers _her_.

‘It’ is her transplant scar, still more red than pink, stretching from the space between her collarbones down to a few inches above her navel. _It_ is the last thing she wants to see or discuss or think about right now, when she’s finally feeling fully alive again. Which is why she’s keeping her top on.

Otherwise undeterred by her request, Andy’s mouth has already found her pulse point by the time she moves to tug his own shirt over his head. He pulls back just enough to get it off, then returns to his task. The gentle suction he applies there goes even further toward guaranteeing her reward in this endeavor. The gentle scratch of his morning stubble along her neck doubles it.

Speaking to her earlier point, he lifts his lips to say, “What I _am_ is parched,” when he moves a bit higher, “starving,” and again, “desperate.” She’s left whimpering and weak-kneed by his ministrations to the skin behind her earlobe. “And besides,” He leans back against the headboard, resting his palms at the highest point of her thighs as his thumbs trail delicious little circles on her hip bones. “You started it.”

“Yes. I _did_.” And she plans to finish it, too.  

She shifts back and, with a guiding hand, sinks onto his already-slickened length. The way he fills her, the perfect stretch and pressure, has become too foreign lately. A hum rises from her throat as she pauses, reveling in the feeling.

Touch is a cornerstone of their relationship, lending color and meaning to the truths that Sharon would otherwise struggle to convey. Unlike Andy, she can’t always find the right words to pair with what she feels. She would be lost (has been lost) in a relationship where her partner couldn’t read her expressions, couldn’t translate her smoothing of a tie to ‘I need to touch you’ or a pat of an arm to ‘I’ll make this okay’. Or know that a low hum with palms planted onto a chest was the equivalent of saying she, too, had been parched, starving, and desperate for this connection.

Andy, as usual, reads her loud and clear. His eyes burn into hers before he guides her hands up and behind his neck, bringing her closer. She takes the opportunity to rest her forehead against his. “Better?”

His voice goes breathy. “So much better.”

This answer leaves her smiling as she rocks upward and back onto him. From there, they find a rhythm together, further building the swelter with grazing fingers and lips. Anything beyond this room, this bed, fades into nothingness.

Perfect nothingness….right up until a loud, buzzing, digital rendition of “La Cucuracha” leaves them both shaken from their reverie and staring at Andy’s nightstand.  

_God, I hate that ringtone_. Sharon brushes dampened hair away from her forehead. She sighs, “Two thirty.”

He steadies her with a hand on her hip as he reaches over for his phone to switch the alarm off. “Two twenty seven, to be exact.”

When he straightens, she pulls the device from his hands. She enters its PIN easily, 1-1-0-4 — Nicole’s birthday, then holds the phone close to her eyes in order to navigate its screen without her glasses. Andy grows restless, squirming beneath her as she swipes and taps her way through his settings. Finally, she darkens it with a squeeze of the power button and smiles down at him, victorious.

“No sleep-in for you. I just turned off _all_ of your alarms.”

“Okay. Whatever.” Andy takes the phone from her and tosses it back toward its charging cord. It bounces on the mattress, clatters off the side of the nightstand, and lands on the floor with a _slap_.

“You’re going to break that thing.”

“I don’t care.” His words flow on a frustrated sigh.

Sharon can’t help but laugh at his impatience as he pulls her back down to his mouth. The moment is one of those perfect ones that she’ll wish later she could recreate on command. They trade luxurious kisses as she continues rotating her hips along his length, content to take her time on her way to their ultimate goal. His arm curls around her lower back as his other hand splays between her shoulders, holding her close.  The early morning world is quiet beyond their sighs and muffled moans. The satisfying ache in her core builds in tantalizing increments.

But all of Sharon’s interest in the pace and longevity of the moment disappears when Andy’s hand snakes between them. As he brushes against her center, she arches her back and drops her head to follow the motion, all of her focus pinpointing toward chasing the sensations he stokes in her. She lets her fingertips curl into the muscles along his shoulders as her breath quickens into panting. His thrusts become more insistent as her own rhythm falters.

Still, the friction has her rising and rising and rising until she’s crashing down, marked with a silent cry directed upwards. Her finish dominoes into his, until he’s gripping her waist and releasing a long, low sigh into the hollow of her neck. They end up in an overheated, inelegant, and wholly overdue knot on the sheets.

Curled onto Andy’s chest, with a hazy contentment hovering over her, Sharon can’t locate her earlier rush to get out of bed. But, eventually, she’s driven to speak, if only to make sure her husband is still conscious. “Mmmm, I think I could go back to sleep,” she teases.

“That’s just...that’s evil.”

She lifts a shoulder. “Call it what you want. At least you’re not snoozing through your alarm.”

“Okay,” Andy presses a kiss to her temple. “I’ll give you that.”

Following a prolonged grumble involving ‘2 AM,’ ‘quality time,’ and unkind words about his boss, he shifts Sharon onto the mattress. Rubbing at the back of his neck, he trudges into the closet. She gets herself back into some semblance of order and claims the bathroom before he needs it to shower. By the time he heads in that direction she’s out in the kitchen, brewing a pot of decaf and looking up harassment policies from a dog-eared rulebook that, she supposes, confirms every stereotype her former coworkers cooked up about her through the years.

She’s re-reading a noteworthy paragraph when an arm curls around her waist from behind. The familiar sharp scent of aftershave turns her lips upward as Andy settles his chin on her head. Although she can’t see it, a frown carries on his voice when he says, “I thought you were gonna go back to sleep.”

Sharon snorts. “I was kidding, obviously.”

“Obviously.” He nods toward her reading material. “What’s that?”

“The LAPD Policy Manual.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Well if you’re looking to pass out, you’ve picked the right book.”

“I’m just brushing up on a few things,” she flips the page, referring back to the general guidelines. “I’m not reading it from cover to cover.”

On a chuckle, he says, “You know, most cops don’t even use that thing when they’re actually _still working for_ the LAPD.”

“Believe me...I _know_.” Sharon isn’t going to get anything done with him wrapped around her like this. She flips the book face-down, marking her spot before turning in his arms. Her hands find the taut lines of his suspenders. “You ready to go?”

“I guess that depends on what you mean by ‘ready,’” he says, grimacing.

Ignoring his gripe, she nods toward the refrigerator. “I packed some quiche and leftover stir-fry for you.”

“Thank you.” He dips his head to kiss her, then pulls back with a roguish glint in his eyes. “If only I’d known that the secret to getting my shit together was a wife.”

Sharon lifts an eyebrow. Her first impulse is to double down, _Keep talking like that and you’ll be looking for a new one_. But it feels too much like crossing a line to even jokingly suggest that she’d leave him over his sense of humor, especially since it was part of why she fell for him in the first place.

Instead, she pushes her bottom lip out. “Just _any_ wife?”

“Nah,” he grins. “I have high standards. Only one woman fits the bill, really. I wouldn’t wife just anybody.”

This succeeds in pulling her out of the joke. Her eyes narrow. “Did you just use ‘wife’ as a verb, Andy?”

He backs away from the counter. “Uh, you can blame your son for letting me know about that usage.”

“Which one?”

“The tall one,” he says, packing up his containers from the fridge, moving more quickly in the wake of her pique.

She’s not sure whether she should be more proud that it wasn’t Rusty or more curious that it _was_ Ricky. Her eyes cut to the still-darkened parkland beyond her windows as she considers how she might bring that up with him. With his thumb hooking gently under her chin, Andy turns her back toward him.

“I was just kidding, babe.”

“No,” she waves him off, “I know.”

“Okay.” He leans in for another kiss. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” She follows him out of the kitchen.

He glances up from securing his badge and holster onto his belt just long enough to say, “Please tell me you’ll consider going back to bed.”

Sharon grins. “I will _consider_ it.”

“Good.” He nods. “Oh, and,” he winks at her as he backs through the door and into the hall. “Thanks again for the wake-up call.”


	4. Wind Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Encouraged by the return of her good health, Sharon turns to an old friend to gather information on Neil Williams' past.

“Mom, it’s not, like, a disrespectful thing. It’s supposed to be funny in its un-PC-ness.”

Ricky is in the midst of explaining his months-old “wifing” comment to Sharon when Rusty plods into the kitchen, still-pajamaed and blinking into the morning sunlight.

“I see.” She keeps her voice level as she reaches out to ruffle her younger son’s hair. Her strategy in timing the call — wanting to catch Ricky after his usual wake-up and before his carpool arrived at his door — hadn’t anticipated that Rusty would still be asleep down the hall.

On the phone, Ricky sighs. “Do you really think I’d encourage Andy to think of you as anything less than an equal?”

“I’d hope not.”

“I wouldn’t. Ever. I meant it as a joke, that’s all.” He sighs at her thoughtful silence. “You know, he was a little _tense_ at the time.”

 _Oh, yes. Yes he was._ “I can imagine.”

“A whole night away from you. He was a mess.”

“Or maybe he was nervous about the wedding.” She glosses past what had been the elephant in the room at the time, her then-unclarified heart condition.

“I dunno,” he teases, having figured out he’s off the hook. “You two don’t spend a lot of time apart.”

“Well, we do now.”

It’s silly, the regret that slices under her ribs at the observation. She lives with the man, it isn’t as if she doesn’t still see him every day. _Most_ every day, at least. But Sharon misses the compatibility of working with Andy, the certainty of his support in the face of meddling supervisors, slippery defense lawyers, and sociopathic murders. And it only adds to her malaise to know that he and everyone else in her old division are wrestling with the outcome of her choice to retire.

Her thoughts are broken by Ricky’s voice, partially obscured by rustles of movement on his end of the line. “Ah, Mom, I gotta go. My ride’s here.”

“Okay, honey. I love you.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

Rusty doesn’t look up from pouring raisin bran and milk as she ends the call. “Was that Ricky?”

“Mhmm.”

A joking edge works its way into his otherwise sleep-heavy voice. “What’d he do this time?”

“Nothing, really. I was just curious about something.” Sharon slides her phone into the pocket of her sweater. “You’re up late today.”

“Yeah, Andrea shifted our schedules around since we’ve worked so many nights over the past few weeks.” He turns to face her, leaning his back against the counter edge as he holds his bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other.

“When does your trial start?”

Around a mouthful of cereal, he answers, “A week from Monday.”

With a nod, Sharon leaves him to eat. If history is any indication, he pushed his alarm back as far as he could manage without being late. As her son inhales cereal, she fills the kettle and puts it on a burner, picks out a bag of tea. While she wipes the counters down, waiting for the water to boil, a red circle catches her eye from beside the fridge. It’s Andy’s pill container, holding the vitamins he takes with lunch.

She turns the plastic disc in her hand as she asks Rusty, “Are you going to be over in the Murder Room at all today?”

“I dunno.” His spoon clatters around the sides of the bowl. “I feel like Andrea’s trying to avoid going over there.” At Sharon’s questioning look, he adds, “The other day she made some comment about not getting work from Major Crimes.”

“She did?”

Rusty shrugs. “I don’t know how true it was, though. She was pretty…” He grimaces, searching for a word. “Steamed.”

“What about?” She asks the question just as he tips the bowl to his mouth, draining the milk from it.

After swallowing and swiping at his mouth, Rusty says, “Um, I’m not really sure. Something about a referral.”

“I can’t imagine she’d just stop getting cases from the squad.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” He bends over to put his dishes into the washer. “I don’t know the context, so I can’t really say.”

She pats his shoulder as he straightens. “Look at you, not jumping to conclusions.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grins. “I guess maybe this adulthood thing is rubbing off on me.”

With a smile, she says, “Not adulthood. _Maturity_. That’s much harder to come by.”

Rusty rolls his eyes as he heads out of the kitchen. “If you say so.”

The whistling kettle sends Sharon back into motion. Once her tea is steeping and the kitchen is back to its spotless state, she settles at the table with her old policy guide, a fresh yellow legal pad, her favorite make of pen, Andy’s pill holder, and a steaming mug of cherry rooibos. With the beginnings of a plan in mind, she starts a list:

\- _History: Kennan_

\- _Current details: Amy_

\- _Warning system?_

\- _Gaps in policy?_

She’s brushing up on the last item, re-reviewing the harassment definitions, when Rusty appears next to the table. He’s dressed for work and wearing a frown. “Are you, like, _working_ or something?”

“I just have a few calls to make today.”

His eyes flit between the notebook and her face, his brows knitted. “Just...take it easy?”

She fights back the annoyance that threatens to slip out, rephrasing it into gentleness even as her cheeks warm. “You don’t need to worry about me, Rusty.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

Rather than argue her health any further, she slides the pill case across the table. “Can you drop this off with Andy, if you do end up over at the PAB?”

“Sure, yeah.”

Sharon crooks her finger at him, beckoning him down so she can press a kiss to his cheek. “Have a good day.”

“You too.” He hoists his bag onto his shoulder and throws one last concerned look her way before heading for the door.

With her potential distractions out and about, Sharon picks up her phone. A few swipes leave her tapping an entry titled ‘Brad’. She dials the number and leans back into her chair, waiting on the call to connect.

After a few rings, a deep, efficient voice carries over the line. “Internal Affairs, Commander Kennan.”

His typical straightforward greeting leaves her smiling, warming her reply. “Brad, it’s Sharon.”

“Sharon!” His tone softens in an instant. “Oh my God, how are you?”

“I’m doing well, all things considered.”

“I meant to call you. I know that sounds bad, I just wasn’t sure what your...well, your status was.”

She lets out a dry laugh. “My status is ‘at home and getting closer to my old self every day.’”

“That’s great. I’m glad to hear it.”

Sharon’s gaze travels to the pile of floral shop cards on the credenza. “Thank you for the lovely flowers, by the way.”

The vase of pale yellow roses he’d sent had found a spot of honor on her bedside table in the hospital and, later on, in the middle of the coffee table at home.

“Ah, I can’t take too much credit. Sonia picked them out.”

“Well, she did a great job. I really appreciated it. I needed every piece of beauty I could get while I was in the hospital.”

“I’m glad to hear they brightened things up a bit.”

A lull forms in the fade of their middleweight small talk. Sharon slides into it before he can try to wiggle out of the conversation with some pressing work issue. “So, Brad…”

His response is a mixed groan-laugh, followed by, “Eight years out, and I still fear that tone.”

“I’m not _that_ terrible, am I?”

“Not at all, but it usually means you’re going to ask me to do something I don’t want to do.”

He’d transferred to FID in the 90s as a newly minted detective, with Sharon assigned to translate her whole three years of experience into a mentorship. Brad followed her up the chain in FID, working as her second until he lateraled to become the assistant CO of IA and, eventually, took over as a commander there after she moved to Major Crimes. But the back-and-forth they trade returns her to the decade-plus they worked together, their days of stakeout banter and barbs traded over file reviews.

 _Today is a day for feeling normal again_.

With this in mind, she asks, “I’ve never steered you wrong, have I?”

“No, I suppose not. So what’s up?”

Rather than beat around the bush any further, Sharon sighs and says, “Neil Williams is up.”

“Oh _boy_ .” A string of noises follow Brad’s voice, culminating with what sounds like the _click_ of his office door closing.

“So you know what I’m talking about, then.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Brad, how in the world—”

“Before we get into this,” he says, “you know I’m not really supposed to be discussing it with you.”

He’s right, of course. But rather than say that, Sharon pushes the issue. “What I’ve already heard is enough to make me call.”

“Even so.”

She taps her pen against her notepad. “I might be retired, but you should understand that I continue to view the promotion and protection of female LAPD officers as my life’s work.”

“I get that.”

“And if I’m unable to get to the bottom of this through the channels available to me, I won’t hesitate to use more... _public_ methods.”

This is a feint, but one she hopes to have delivered convincingly enough for Brad to buy. Going public, even by filing FOIA requests for Williams’ internal files, would bring more attention to herself than she’d want, while virtually ensuring the end of Andy’s career. But the pit that forms in her gut whenever she considers the authority that Williams now wields is enough to make Sharon try.

Besides, it’s an informed attempt, one that’s rewarded by a terse sigh. “You know full well they don’t give us a say on who gets promoted and who doesn’t. If it was up to me, the guy would still be riding patrol in Harbor.”

It’s as much as an open door as she’ll get. “Even without that kind of input, wouldn’t someone have noticed the investigations on a review of his file?”

“That’s the thing, Sharon. We were never able to get a full investigation on him.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” his sharp exhale is a burst of static in her ear. “Every time we started looking into an incident, the reporting party would recant.”

“ _Every_ time?”

“Without fail.”

Sharon jots, _RPs recant on invstgn_. “And how many incidents were there?”

“Um…”

She allows his silence to stretch for several seconds before she asks again. “How many, Brad?”

“At least ten.”

A chill runs down Sharon’s back as she moves to add the number to her notes. “ _Ten_?”

“Though I will say that the frequency let up over the last few years.”

“How _reassuring_.” She lets her voice cut across this point.

“I didn’t like it either, okay? But my hands were tied. Without cooperating witnesses, I couldn’t run a case on Williams. Especially not with our workload being as heavy as it is.”

Attempting to roll the tension from her shoulders, Sharon asks, “Is there any way I could review the paper on those reports?”

The line goes quiet, save for a rapid set of taps. She pictures Brad drumming his fingers on his desktop, his go-to nervous tic. The rhythm goes quiet with a slap. “How about this: I’ll dig up the files, write summaries that protect the RPs’ identities, and talk them over with you.”

It’s not ideal. But, given the source and her outsider status, it’s as generous of an offer as she’ll get. “You arrange that,” Sharon answers, “and I’ll treat you to lunch once we’re finished.”

“Deal.” He chuckles. “You drive a hard bargain, Commander.”

Sharon rolls her eyes. “Eventually people are going to have to stop calling me that.”

“Nope. You earned the rank. You keep it.” After a moment, he adds, “By the way, it seems that I didn’t get an invitation to your retirement party.”

“That’s because there are no invitations, because there is no party.”

“That’s a travesty, Sharon. If anyone deserves a send-off...”

“I couldn’t really make that kind of plan while I was waiting on a heart,” she gently reminds him. “And besides, my party planning has reached its temporary limit. I spent most of last year putting the wedding together.”

“Which was great—”

“Thank you.”

“But it just goes to show...you have a husband now. Make _him_ plan it.”

Visions of an overly elaborate, surprise retirement gala rush to Sharon’s mind. She rubs at her temple. “Please don’t give Andy any ideas.”

A scoff travels over the line. “Like he’d entertain suggestions from me, anyway. He nearly glared me off the elevator the other day.”

She sighs. Even now, under circumstances that couldn’t be any more different, she remembers being on the receiving end of those looks. “You and Sonia should come over for dinner sometime. He wouldn’t be so…”

Brad fills in her silence, “Hostile? Caustic? Mean?”

A flare of protectiveness rises in Sharon’s chest. “Do you really think I would’ve married him if he was any of those things?”

“No, no.” He’s chagrined. “I know you wouldn’t.”

“I’m just saying, he wouldn’t be so _whatever_ if he got to know you.”

“Maybe.” She can hear the smile in Brad’s voice when he adds, “Let’s try to set something up when you stop by. That’s assuming you don’t tank my career over this.”

“We will. And I won’t.”


	5. Waste a Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lazy Saturday turns toward pampering at a surprise visit from Andrea Hobbs. But Sharon's tranquility bursts with more news of men -- or a specific man -- behaving badly.

Saturday arrives glowing and cozy, with the sun streaming orange light onto Sharon’s eyelids. It’s a welcome change from starting awake at the blare of a phone call or an alarm from across the bed. Everything within earshot is still and silent, with the exception of Andy’s breaths, which continue to flow deep and even. The rhythm goads her to roll over, nestle against his side, and steal a few more minutes of sleep.

When she wakes up for good, an hour has passed and the bed is otherwise empty. 

Once upon a time, Sharon would’ve cursed this “lost” weekend hour, time she could’ve spent handling errands or chores before her hectic work schedule wrestled its way back to the forefront of her life. She certainly wouldn’t have taken her time in getting out of bed and getting dressed. But the one gift retirement has given her is an abundance of time. Barring physical limitations, her to-do list is now perpetually under control.

The same can’t be said for her guys, who are in the midst of negotiating a laundry schedule when she steps out of the bedroom. 

Andy sits in a stool at the peninsula countertop, still in his robe and pajamas, coffee in hand. He squints over his mug into the kitchen, where Rusty says something about the afternoon. With a shrug, he answers, “No problem. I’ll get mine done today, then.” He catches Sharon walking toward them and grins. “Ah, there she is.”

“Was I missing?” When she peers into the kitchen, she finds a spread of bowls and plates and what looks to be half the refrigerator’s contents.

In the middle of that chaos, Rusty shakes his head. “Mom, you  _ never _ sleep in.”

“Mmm.” She gestures toward the project taking shape in front of him.“What’s all this?”

“Breakfast,” Rusty answers, as if it’s glaringly obvious. But then, after scanning the counter, he frowns and adds, “Ah, hopefully.”

“He decided to experiment with one of those heart-healthy brochure recipes,” Andy explains as he wraps his arm around Sharon’s waist. “A brave move, if you ask me.”

“French toast and bread pudding aren’t  _ that _ different.”

“I’m not worried about that. Or your cooking skills.” Andy nods toward a bright print-out, held open on the counter by a two-pound bag of chia seeds. “I’m worried about the quality of the original recipe.”

Sharon pinches at his side, trying to stem his skepticism. “Well  _ I _ appreciate the effort, and the creativity.”

“So do I!” Andy tips his mug toward the stove. “I was just saying...he’s brave.”

Brave or not, the breakfast Rusty constructs is delicious, and all the better for the free-flowing conversation they share while he whisks, cuts, dips, and flips. For the first time in recent memory, the three of them eat together at the dining room table, chatting about baseball, law school, trips, plans. Death and illness are conspicuously, blessedly, absent from the meal.

Slow days at home have become her normal, now, but Sharon still looks forward to aimless time spent with her family. Even if that time is shortened by an upcoming trial. Once Andy moves to handle clean-up, Rusty retreats to his room with a french press filled with “full-octane” coffee and grumbled complaints about picky judges. 

Sharon knows better than to offer her help in the kitchen. Instead, she sinks onto the couch with a dog-eared paperback copy of  _ Gone Girl _ , one of the many novels she bought and hadn’t spared time to read over the past...nine or so years. She’s made it through a chapter and a half by the time Andy flops down next to her.

He turns on the TV, but angles close to Sharon and speaks low before so much as turning the channel, “So, Rusty is meeting Gus for a late lunch today.”

“He told you that?” Surprise makes itself clear in her voice, in a way she regrets instantly.

“Yeah.” Andy frowns, edging toward defensiveness. “He tells me stuff.”

“Good,” she squeezes his wrist with a smile. “I’m glad.”

The reassurance relaxes his expression and leaves him with a crooked grin. “I told him if he’s gonna go, he should be prepared to listen to what Gus has to say.”

“Mm, yeah.” With Rusty’s history, the way he’d opened up to Gus, and how their relationship came crashing down, Sharon doesn’t expect her son to let his ex back into his good graces any time soon. If ever. Wounds that deep don’t heal quickly. 

_ He’s so young to have to learn these lessons _ .

“Is that okay?”

Andy’s question pulls her back to the moment. “Yes, I think that’s good advice.” She lifts a shoulder. “Excellent advice, actually, given that Rusty probably won’t like where the conversation goes.” 

“Excellent, huh?” Andy sinks further into the cushions and props his feet on the coffee table, his grin going more smirk-like as he pulls up the cable guide. “There’s a first time for everything, I guess.” 

She’s about to make a comment about him giving himself more credit when he says, “Nice. Bond movie marathon.”

Sharon rolls her eyes as she abandons her book and settles against his side. On TV, Roger Moore arrives in New York City. “Which one is this?”

“ _ Live and Let Die _ .” At her blank look, he explains, “Heroin, voodoo, tarot, speedboat chases. Intrigue, of course.”

“Of course.” 

In a snug spot, and with less than zero investment in the movie, Sharon drifts to sleep while 007 meets the tarot reader. Andy must drop off at some point, too, because they end up sleepily blinking at one another after a knock sounds at the front door.

“I’ll get it,” Sharon mumbles, sliding off the couch. But a glance through the peephole only leaves her more confused as she pulls the door open. 

“Andrea, what are you doing here?”

She’d sent a text earlier, around nine.  _ Any big plans today? _ A negative response apparently led to this:

“ _ I,”  _ she says with a roguish smirk as she enters the living room, “am getting you out of this condo and into the presence of someone other than your son and/or husband.”

From his seat, Andy cranes his neck to glare at Andrea, pairing the look with an annoyed, “Hey!” 

Even so, Sharon doesn’t miss the slight upturn of his lips. If she didn’t know any better, she’d have guessed he called Andrea and suggested this mystery outing himself.

“No offense, Andy. I’m sure she likes your company very much.”

“I do.” Sharon reaches over the back of the couch to smooth her hand along his shoulder. “But I wouldn’t mind getting out and about. What do you have up your sleeve?”

Her plans, as it turns out, consist of two all-inclusive passes to a new spa downtown. It’s a hot ticket, and, no matter how tightly Sharon turns the screws on the drive in, Andrea won’t give up the cost or her source.

“Stand down, Commander,” she teases. “I swear it doesn’t involve conflict of interest or theft or  _ whatever _ .”

“Does it involve you selling a kidney?”

“ _ No _ . Believe me, they were gifts.” Andrea shrugs. “I just figured we could both use something…” As her point fades away, she shakes her head. “Well, something at least semi-wonderful, at the moment.”

And it  _ is _ wonderful, nothing semi about it. Sharon — still not cleared for chest pressure — has to skip over the tempting full-body massage options, from which Andrea selects a Swedish something-or-other. But a citrus facial, paired with hand and foot massages, leave her utterly slackened and serene. 

And that’s even before she ends up on a cushioned lounger in a private patio cabana, sipping infused water — strawberry cucumber, if she had to guess — and waiting on her uber smoothing violet vitamin blah-blah mask to work its magic. A nearby fireplace casts pleasant warmth onto her toes. Windchimes toll softly somewhere beyond the white cloth walls billowing around her. Floral steam wafts through the air.  _ This might well be heaven _ , she thinks.

_ Heaven in DTLA? Go figure. _

The reappearance of her companion only confirms Sharon’s suspicion. 

“Oh my  _ God _ ,” Andrea practically melts onto her own lounger. “I wonder what I’d have to shell out to make this a regular occurance.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

“We probably don’t want to know.” She peers over, gesturing toward her face. “D’you get that velvety violet antioxidant replenishing mask?”

Sharon snorts. “Yeah, something like that.”

“If it does everything they say it does,” Andrea says, reclining and stretching out, “I’ll do whatever it takes to get back in here every month. Second mortgage? Private sector? Pyramid scheme? Sign me up.”

“Don’t say that too loud,” Sharon lifts a brow. “Someone might come in here and make you an offer.”

“Let ‘em. Right now, I’d probably accept.”

“You say that now—” her remaining point is cut off by a telltale pattern of buzzes emanating from her person.

Andrea narrows her eyes into an accusatory stare. “I thought we said no phones.”

“ _ You _ said you were leaving your phones at the bottom of your purse.” Sharon reaches into her robe pocket, toward the source of the sound. “ _ I _ have a son who was planning to meet his now-ex for lunch and might need a pick-me-up.”

“Ugh. Gus.”

She matches the sentiment with a curl of her upper lip. “I know.” But the screen she holds up to her face doesn’t display Rusty’s name. To Andrea, she says, “Hang on a second,” before swiping to accept the call and lifting the phone to a goop-free zone near her ear. She keeps her voice low when she answers. “Brad, what did I do to earn a call from you on a Saturday?”

“Well, just like the old days...you handed me a case.”

Guilt snakes around her ribcage. “I didn’t mean for you to—”

“Don’t worry about it, Sharon. I have three green detectives on my squad. I figured this is the only way I’d be able to do my excavation in peace.” He chuckles. “Besides, I barely get to do actual investigative work anymore. It was kinda fun.”

She relaxes back into her seat. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Rustling paper fills her ear. “But, then again, pulling together these reports was a little more...involved than I’d expected.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Brad’s voice goes tight, the way it always has when he’s needed to give her bad news. “I underestimated the count. I found a total of sixteen complaints.”

“Sixteen.” 

“And there are references to a couple of other files that I can’t seem to pull up.”

Once again, facts surrounding Neil Williams send a trail of goosebumps up Sharon’s arms. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“To say there’s enough here to form a pattern would be an understatement.” He clears his throat before asking, “Want to meet Monday to go over the summaries?”

Even though it sits on her desk across town, she can see the date on her planner, circled in red ink. Monday is supposed to bring her ticket to freedom, via a day spent trailing Alonzo around the transplant center. “That won’t work for me. I have an all-day checkup at Cedars.”

A series of clicks sound over the line. “Tuesday I have a budget thing at ten...My Wednesday morning’s free, but I have an interview scheduled for one, so no time for lunch.”

There’s no real reason their meeting couldn’t wait for a day when their schedules — mostly Brad’s schedule — could accommodate the original plan. No reason other than the tickle of nervous intuition making itself known at the base of Sharon’s neck. “Would you mind terribly if we skipped lunch?”

“Ah ah, that was part of the bargain.” Brad lets the point linger as she considers alternatives. After a few seconds, he adds, “And I even came in on a  _ Saturday _ —”

“Which I did not ask you to do.” Sharon lets her voice bounce around the words, forming them into a tease rather than an admonishment. But fair is fair, and she  _ had  _ promised him a meal out of this endeavor. “How about breakfast instead? I’ll stop and pick it up on the way to your office.” 

“Intriguing offer.” His voice curves into something like admiration. “You always have been a fan of the third option.”

“I’ve had to break many impasses in my day.”

“No doubt,” he laughs. “Well, I’d say a blueberry triple stack from Gina’s with a double side of bacon and a cinnamon roll would make us even.”

His mention of the diner — one they’d made their usual haunt, once upon a time — makes her smile, even as she  _ tsk _ s his order. “You still eat like a teenager.”

“I still run far enough to keep it from catching up with me.” 

Brad’s off-handed comment leaves Sharon’s stomach sinking in some hard to define way, likely involving the truth that not everyone has to build their diet around a heart condition. Or that some people can still go out for a run everyday, without a worry for their health. But, unaware of the reflection he’s brought on, he prompts, “So do we have a deal?”

“Yes, I’ll deliver your ridiculous breakfast to your office.”

“Nine sharp work for you?”

“It does.”

“I’ll see you then.” In his typical way, he clicks the call to its end before Sharon can echo the sentiment. She shakes her head as she taps the red circle on her screen. 

“Well, well,” Andrea says. “You have some kind of hot morning date thing going on?”

“Of course not,” Sharon scoffs as she slides her phone back into her pocket. “I’m a happily married woman, remember?”

She’s left grinning to herself, recalling a time she’d said something similar to Andy. The response she gets now, though, is an almost polar opposite:

“How could I forget?”

Letting the taunt slide, she asks, “Do you know Brad Kennan?”

“The name sounds vaguely familiar.”

“He runs the Internal Affairs Group. We worked together for  _ years _ .” At Andrea’s raised brow, she adds, “I asked him to collect some information for me.”

“Oh my  _ God _ ,” the words bleed into a cackle. “You can take the cop out of the investigation…” As Sharon rolls her eyes, Andrea adds, “You couldn’t have Andy do that?”

“These files are beyond his reach.”

“Oh.” Her voice goes serious as she catches on. “ _ Oh. _ ” She props herself up on her elbow, angling herself further into the conversation. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain crotchety captain whose ass is sitting in your chair, would it?”

Sharon doesn’t mean to confirm the guess, but her nonchalant reply, “It isn’t  _ my _ chair anymore,” does it anyway. Frustrated, she lifts her hand to her forehead, forgetting the muddy concoction smeared there. “Damn it,” she mutters, wiping the clay clinging to her fingers onto the pristine white towel folded beneath her.

“Well thank God  _ someone’s _ looking into it.” 

Half-joking, she asks, “Why, do you have a grievance to add to the list?”

“Sure. He’s a talky blowhard who doesn’t play well with others.”

_ And how many men at the PAB fit that description?  _ Still, Sharon grimaces. “From what I’ve heard, Williams seems like the old-school, take-it-to-trial-at-all-costs type.” 

Despite the easy parallel, she avoids the knee-jerk comparison to Provenza. The Lieutenant has his limitations, sure, but he’s also demonstrated an impressive ability for growth, including in his attitudes toward women. That’s apparently much more than can be said for Williams.

Besides, Andrea ruins the juxtaposition when she says, “Oh no, I think the Captain likes the deal-making process just fine. He just doesn’t want to spend time constructing those deals with  _ me _ .”

“You’re serious.”

“Yeah,” Andrea smooths a lock of hair behind her ear, “on their most recent case, the bastard actually said, to my  _ face _ , that they didn’t have the evidence to deal. Then he turned around and called Thomas in, not even an hour later.”

“Unbelievable.”

“He worked his way onto my shit list before I could so much as say, ‘I’ll work on a first degree charge.’” As she settles back into her chair, she adds, “And that was before the whole Stroh thing.”

As usual, that name seems to make the world stop turning. Sharon’s pulse pounds in her ears as her body smoothly transitions from annoyance to alert. “What Stroh thing?”

The question earns a wary, sidelong look from Andrea. “Rusty didn’t tell you?”

“No,” Sharon bites out. “He hasn’t said anything about Stroh since…”  _ Since when? _ It’s been weeks, maybe even  _ months _ . Maybe since… “Since I first got sick and he agreed to take a security detail.” The words tumble like sand from her now-dry mouth. “What happened?”

Andrea releases a long sigh, appearing to wrestle with herself. Eventually, though, she says, “Williams has let go of the Stroh case.”

“What do you mean  _ let go _ of it?”

“I mean he’s transferred it to another division. I’m not even sure which. All I got was an email from some lieutenant, saying she’s overseeing it now.”

“What in the  _ world _ is he thinking?” Moreover, what are all of Sharon’s former coworkers, her husband, and her son thinking, not telling her about this?

“Hard to tell.” The acid in Andrea’s voice contrasts her casual words. She’s livid. “It seems almost fitting, though, that a sexist jerk would be the one to derail the investigation into Stroh.” 

“It’s like a nightmare within a nightmare that never ends.” Sharon mutters, shaking her head. “I still can’t figure out how Williams was put into the position to be making these decisions in the first place.”

“You’re clearly thinking he has some kind of history.”

“Maybe. But even without all that, it takes a lot of momentum to get from patrol in Harbor all the way to running Major Crimes.” Sharon frowns. “He had to have a push from someone...someone with strength in the process.”

“Mason?”

“I doubt it.” But, as she sips at her cucumber-spiked water, she remembers the way the young chief had allowed the FBI to worm their way into the Saint Joseph’s case. “Though maybe it’s a sign of his inexperience.”

“Or maybe he traded the position for some kind of leverage.”

_ But how disappointing, if he did.  _ She’d sized Leo up as one of the good guys from the start, truly their best option if Fritz was out of the running (and, of course, with the acceptance that she didn’t want the job for herself). He was unjaded, straightforward. More important to Sharon, though, was that he seemed to share her belief that the LAPD could be a force for good in the city, that its officers were more than occupying forces in hostile territory.

But, as she’d told her squad back when her own name was in the bucket, positions of power have a way of changing people.

“That’s the thing about politics,” Sharon sighs, settling back as an attendant moves to rest a cool, lavender-scented cloth over her eyes. “The possibilities are endless and the depths are lower than we could ever imagine.”

Andrea’s response is as dry as it is heartfelt. “Amen to that.”


	6. Ride this Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of a relaxing day leaves Sharon needing to have a serious discussion with her husband.

Sharon and Andrea make full use of their spa passes, adding manicures, pedicures, and a long stretch in the sauna before their growling stomachs send them on their way. With neither ready to surrender their day of leisure, they stroll to a bistro — another new tenant in the rapidly changing neighborhood — and let their conversation reach long over a soundtrack of punchy French jazz. The waitress recommends and delivers a selection of Breton cuisine for them to share: an earthy beet and lentil salad studded with garlicky andouille, brothy bowls of mussels lined by hunks of heavily buttered crusty bread, nutty buckwheat galettes folded around melty gruyere and briny ham; all of it paired with flutes of delicate, effervescent dry cider. The city fades into night beyond their window-lined booth, and, despite their earlier detour, topics of work and past-work take up little real estate within their conversation. 

It’s late by the time Sharon pays the bill, having deflected Andrea’s repeated attempts to put the tab on her own card. It’s even later when she steps out of a Lyft at her building, leaving the car to make its trek onward to Andrea’s place in North Hollywood. Sharon is loose and buoyant, her throat burning with a reminder of the laughter that filled the evening. The extension of their outing left her earlier annoyance at the Stroh news nearly forgotten. 

_ Nearly _ . 

A glance upward finds light glowing from the windows of her unit. She’d fielded a few casually curious texts from Andy as the afternoon fell to night. But, even satisfied of her safety, he wouldn’t have gone to bed without her at home. This assumption is validated when she pushes the door into the condo. She finds him on the couch and reading from his tablet, legs stretched along the cushions. 

“Hey.” Andy’s mouth curls into a smile as he watches her toe off her sandals. “I was beginning to wonder if I needed to send out the dogs.”

She allows his joke to turn her lips. “Beautification is a longer process than it used to be.”

Abandoning his tablet on the end table, he straightens up and brings his feet to the floor. “Nah, that can’t be it. You couldn’t be any more beautiful than you were when you left.”

It might be a line, but it’s a  _ great _ line. With her face warming over a short laugh, Sharon settles onto the couch at his side, back where they began the day. Andy presses a kiss to her jaw before pulling back slightly. “Mm, you smell good.”

She snorts, “That’s an added benefit, I guess.” After a moment of stillness, she rummages in her purse for a small, square box, which she hands to him.

“What’s this?”

“A consolation gift for abandoning you at dinnertime.” As he lifts the lid, she explains, “It’s a Kouign-amann.”

He stares at the pastry. “A what, now?”

“A French butter cake. Kind of like a sweet croissant, from what the waitress told me.”

“You had me at ‘butter cake.’” With his grin going crooked, he says, “Thanks,” and leans forward to rest the box on the coffee table. Sinking back into the couch, he lifts her hand from his knee, where she’s twined her fingers with his. “I like this color on you.”

Sharon smirks to herself.  _ Of course he does _ . She’d picked a rich, plum-tinted polish for both halves of her mani/pedi. The deep hue is nearly foreign on her fingers after decades of following LAPD grooming standards to a T. She’s long preferred burgundies and bright reds on her toes, but, up top, anything more adventurous than the soft pink and white tips of a French manicure had, for years, been reserved for long vacations. It was a leisure-only type of look. 

In that sense, it’s befitting of her changed status. Commander Raydor had a standing Friday-lunchtime manicure appointment at a salon two blocks from the PAB, where the technician knew to have a bottle of Rose-Colored Glasses and a bottle of Pointe Blanche ready to go when she walked through the door. Sharon Raydor Flynn, unemployed and unencumbered by dress codes, is free to spend an entire afternoon bumming around a spa and has equal freedom to select whatever nail color she damn well pleases; maybe one that would match a favorite tie from her husband’s collection. 

It’s a new phase in a long line of new phases.

“Sharon?”

“Hmm?” A glance to Andy finds his brow creased, watching her working her way through her inner maze. She wiggles her fingers against his, dispersing his concern. “It’s different.”

“Good different?”

“I think so.”

He nods, allowing the observation to fade away. Before he can raise another topic, and before she can think better of it, Sharon says, “I heard an interesting rumor this afternoon.” 

Her mind seems to float higher after the words escape, half untethered, like her subconscious has taken the reins. Her pulse beats in her throat. She hates arguing with him, hates the hybrid memory-fears brought on by their disagreements; she hates the way her vision goes all tunnellike and how his jaw levers together to the point his teeth must ache. 

None of that has happened here, yet. But the possibility stands. Sharon hasn’t mapped where she expects the conversation to go. All she knows is that her concept of honesty doesn’t allow for keeping her knowledge of the situation from him, even if he did the same in reverse. 

“Oh?” Andy is unfazed by her announcement. His thumb traces an absent pattern on her wrist. “What kind of rumor?”

“A rumor about the Philip Stroh case.”

Sharon searches his face for any sign of recognition or guilt. His tells, to her, are as obvious as a whale washed onto a beach: a flick of his eyes to the floor, a particular downward pull of his lips, a stray stammer across his words. Right now, they’re all absent. 

Instead, a guileless smirk turns his mouth. “I  _ knew _ Hobbs wouldn’t be able to resist talking shop.”

She doesn’t take his bait toward levity. In fact, her voice sharpens in the face of his joke. “She said the case was transferred off Major Crimes.”

“What?” Andy’s expression tightens into a frown, further pointing toward his lack of awareness. “No way.” He shakes his head. “No. That’s our case, all day.”

Something like relief slows her heart. But guilt follows close behind, twisting her reaction into a heavy knot.  _ Of course. Of course he didn’t know _ . “You hadn’t heard about it.”

“As far as I know,” he starts, the words coming hard, “Provenza took over all the cases you owned when you retired.”

“Well, he doesn’t own them anymore.” She rests her head back against the cushion and allows her fatigue to soak through her tone. “At least not that one.”

“I can’t believe—” His mutter breaks with a dark look down the hall. “Wait. If Hobbs knew…” Andy meets her eyes with a silent question.

Sharon lifts her brows and nods as she wets her lips. “That’s a fair assumption, based on what Andrea said.”

His humorless, sighed laugh marks their arrival on the same page. “Unbelievable.”

“I’d say Rusty was trying to protect me.” She lets a long breath wend out of her lungs. “Not to say that’s okay…” The trail of her words ends with a significant look aimed at Andy, whose history of similar choices has raised her ire on more than one occasion. 

“About  _ this _ ?” His eyes darken. “I would’ve told you, if I’d known. Stroh is way too dangerous to be fucking around with.”

“Yes. Yes he is.”

Andy’s eyes drop to their hands, still folded together on his thigh. His jaw sets into a hard line. “If we don’t have the case, who does?”

“Andrea said she got a notification email from a lieutenant whose name she didn’t recognize.” Sharon shrugs. “Robbery/Homicide, maybe?”

“I’ll ask around down there, see if we can get any kind of unofficial foothold with the detective of record.”

“Thank you.” With the potential rift between them paved over, Sharon allows herself to notice the weight of her eyelids, urging her toward sleep. But, with her energy and her earlier rush of adrenaline depleted, their bed might as well be miles away.

“I’d say you should read the kid the riot act in the morning,” Andy’s voice dips low, “but he was a little red-eyed when he got home.”

“Oh.” Her heart sinks. “Was he really?”

“Young love,” he says, by way of explanation.

Complicated, illogical, dramatic, and all-consuming, in other words. Disentangling their hands, Sharon wraps herself against his side with a groan. “It’s  _ completely _ overrated.”

“Yeah.” His accompanying chuckle pairs perfectly with the trail his fingers trace along her scalp. “It really is.” 

With his heart beating steady against her cheek and his hand combing through her hair, it doesn’t take long for her eyes to fall closed. She could easily stay like this all night...only to wake up in a much less peaceful position, with a crick in her neck and God only knows what other aches and pains radiating through her body. Experience tells her this, even as her body weighs leaden against the prospect of moving.

So, she mumbles, “I bet young love doesn’t find itself too tired to get off the couch, though.”

Andy’s hand stills. “You think?”

Her response is a hum to the rhythm of  _ I don’t know _ . 

Before Sharon can rethink the maneuver she’s prodding him into, his hands and chest slip away and the couch shifts beneath her. His quiet footsteps trail off toward the kitchen. The room falls into a perfect silence that leaves her prying an eye open to the spot he just vacated. It’s at this point she notices the kitchen and living room lights falling to darkness one by one, until he clicks off the lamp behind her.

With the condo submerged in night, Andy’s arms slide easily under her knees and behind her back. He lifts her without so much as a sigh, and moves even-footed toward their room.

She’s never let him do this. Not even at the lowest depths of her transplant recovery. Oh, he  _ tried _ , sure. He offered more times that she could remember. But pride had gotten her onto her feet without fail, even when pain echoed through her chest as if it was being jackhammered with every movement. 

And why had she put herself through that? To avoid the embarrassed rush of warmth that now floods her face. “If anyone asks,” she says, burying her face in his neck, “this never happened.”

Even unseen, his smile is obvious when he says, “You can’t just let me have my moment of chivalry?” 

“Have it,” she replies in kind, “just keep it to yourself.”

“Demands, demands,” he mumbles into her hairline as he jostles the door open. “Keep it up, and next time I’ll leave you to sleep on the couch.”

“No you won’t,” she answers, matter-of-factly, as he pivots on the other side of the threshold. 

His laugh is mostly breath. “Nah, I won’t.” 

A well-measured push from his foot sends the door closing behind them with a soft click.


	7. Lay Your Cards Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Brad’s help, Sharon gets a full view of Williams’ history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains non-firsthand descriptions of workplace sexual harassment.

_ Slacks. Skirt. Dress. _

The options, lined up along the end of the bed, lay under Sharon’s judgemental eye.

The decision shouldn’t be difficult. She long ago reached the point where her wardrobe consists only of pieces she enjoys. No sentimental pang keeps her from eliminating anything out-fashioned or worn. As such, picking an outfit used to be a five-minute process, at most, with the longest deliberations reserved for days she planned to brief her superiors and evenings she had plans with Andy.

She frowns at the slacks and lifts them off the bed. Pants, in general, are an everyday option, good for hanging around the house or driving to the store. This garment’s casual cousins have been on heavy rotation as of late, and her trip downtown brings an opportunity to switch up her choices. She returns the hanger to the closet.

Monday brought, at last, the end of Sharon’s broken breastbone, confirmed by an x-ray and Alonzo’s beaming approval. With that came a near-complete restoration of her rights. She can drive, she can push into a downward dog, she can lift as much as her arms and back can carry. 

Now that the moratorium on chest pressure is off, she can receive enthusiastic hugs. Andy’s reaction, when she told him about the all-clear, proved the point:

“Does that mean I can do this?” He wrapped his arms around her, holding her in a firm embrace that left her not-uncomfortably compressed against his chest.

She found herself giggling, both at the implication that this was something he’d been wanting to do and at the simple  _ luxury  _ of the contact. Resting her chin against his shoulder, she draped her own arms up his back and let her answer stand at an extended, “Mm-hmm.”

“Good.” He buried his nose in her hair. “That whole broken breastbone thing was cramping my style.”

She pulled back enough for him to see her narrowed eyes. “It was cramping  _ your _ style?”

“Well, and yours more, I’m sure,” he recovered.

“So am I.”

What had  _ literally _ cramped her style was the no-arms-overhead rule, which scratched several of Sharon’s favorite dresses from her arsenal. With that in mind, she re-hangs the skirt and shimmies into the last option standing: her royal blue square-necked dress; bright and curvy and flattering in all the right ways. Even paired with a slim-seamed navy cardigan — a less imposing option than the white blazer she prefers to match with it— and a gauzy-but-concealing beaded blue scarf, the dress returns another small piece of herself. It’s restorative. It feels  _ right _ .

Right, like the bolstering height and satisfying clicked impacts of her navy patent pumps. Right like the cradle of the driver’s seat around her body and Morning Edition droning from the radio. Right like the never-ending crawl-stop, give-take of LA morning traffic. Right like piloting, as if drawn by a magnet, toward the PAB.

Of course, given her promise to Brad, she cuts the back-of-her-hand commute a few exits short. The detour sends her idling down side streets, squinting against the morning sun for a glimpse of Gina’s vintage neon sign. But she passes the once well loved diner twice without realizing she’s done so. Only on the third approach does she recognize the building's particular low-slung, large-windowed facade.

From the outside, Gina’s is unrecognizable, save for its location. Its new sign, a matte black and chrome plank, reads, “GNA” and, in smaller text, “Quality Morning Provisions.” The view inside confirms it’s a different kind of place, now; checkered linoleum and pleather-lined booths replaced with white tile and grey marble and pale wood. The menu is a wood-covered mini book, with half the pages devoted to things like 'Philosophy' and 'Sourcing.' After some searching, she’s able to find the makings of Brad’s order, relegated to the menu’s back page, under a heading of, “Old-School Classics.” The remaining options are heavy on bee pollen, paleo granola, fresh-pressed juices, sprouted everything, charcoal, teff, grass-fed this, pasture-raised that. Sharon herself retreats to the so-called classics and selects a vegetable egg-white omelet.

She remarks on the changes when she steps to the counter to order. The angular young man who helps her identifies himself as the eponymous Gina’s grandson. He explains the “evolution,” as he calls it. “We’re, like, a wellness-forward, aesthetic-conscious, community brunch hub now.”

“Oh.” Sharon tries to avoid stretching her smile into insincere territory as she swipes her card. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

With a nod and a vague frown, the man lifts a lonely cinnamon roll from a display case filled with what could best be described as quasi-baked goods. “You got the last one,” he says, resting the roll in a box. “We only make one pan of these a day. Just to keep a holdover from Nana’s days.”

At least the Police Administration Building — the tall, gleaming, and handsome crown jewel of the LAPD— remains unchanged.  Granted, it was only three months ago Sharon last set foot in its halls. But the unfamiliarity of her approach across the plaza says it might as well have been years.

No, here it’s Sharon who’s changed, pushing through the front visitor’s entrance and calling Brad to sign her in, walking red-badged and supervised through the hallways, being greeted by at least a dozen former colleagues expressing their delight in seeing her. 

“You’re the most popular person in here today,” Brad quips as they finally step onto an elevator.

Sharon exhales a laugh. “Don’t let the Pope hear you say that.”

His mouth and brow move in opposite directions, resulting in a confused grin that leaves her measuring how much time has passed since they last connected. The Pope jokes are an Andy thing, and Brad has no context for the sharpened edge in her sense of humor. Rather than explain, she lets her grin go wry. “We  _ are  _ in the Vatican.”

“Oh..kay?”

His continued obliviousness leaves her twisting the explanation into a question. “The house that Pope built?”

This, at least, earns an unburdened smile as the elevator dings onto the fifth floor. “I see.” He steps forward and holds the door with an outstretched arm as Sharon exits and a small group moves to take their place. 

She waits for him across the hall, taking a moment to get a good look at her old friend. Brad’s as lean and fit as ever — he hadn’t been lying about the running — and his skin carries the healthy tan of long hours spent outdoors. His bare pate leaves him looking timeless, in a way, given that he’d shaved what remained of his hair back around ‘99. In rolled shirt sleeves and slightly rumpled slacks, his style remains that of a scattered professor, amplified now by the eyeglasses he’s adopted. Their thick, rectangular frames offset his pale eyes and partially camouflage the lines that form when he smiles.

And he does smile, early and often. His restless energy escapes in pieces. He’d carried a folder down to the first floor, and, with the elevator loaded and closing behind him, he slaps it against his palm. He rocks onto the balls of his well-worn shoes as he nods down the hall, toward IA’s turf. “This’ll put you back in the old days.”

“Well, not  _ that _ old,” Sharon says, falling into step with him in a path toward his office. “For actual old, we’d need to walk over to Parker Center.”

“Holy cow, no,” he chuckles. “You couldn’t pay me to step foot in there, let alone visit our old offices. I’m pretty sure we had black mold. Probably asbestos, too.”

“Probably.” A memory curls her lips. “Remember the A/C vent that dripped water next to your desk?”

A sharp laugh escapes him. “No, no. First it dripped  _ onto _ my desk. I had to move to make room for the bucket, and then—”

“Boss!” The call, sounding from the hallway behind them, chops off Brad’s story.

The source of the sound is a young woman — one of his new detectives, if Sharon had to guess — with a stack of folders pinned against her chest. Brad stills, allowing her to catch up. But, as she realizes she’s interrupted a conversation, her steps slow. “Oh, I’m sorry, I was just gonna ask about the case plan I sent you.”

“Not a problem. I haven’t looked at it yet, but I’ll have notes to you by noon.”

Her face falls. “Sir, all due respect, I’m on a 72-hour deadline—”

“Don’t worry, Sterling. This one is open-and-shut.” Brad flattens a smile, flashing a knowing look to Sharon. “As it so happens, we’re being graced by a visit from the Queen of the 72-hour Cycle.”

With an eye roll, Sharon says, “I wouldn’t say  _ that _ .”

He chuckles past the comment, gesturing between the women. “Laurel Sterling, meet newly-retired Commander Sharon Raydor…” He trails off as they shake hands. “Or is it Flynn now?”

“Technically it’s both,” Sharon explains, “but I have to imagine that I’ll always be a Raydor in this building.”

“Well, yeah,” Brad says, “they need some way to keep you and your husband straight up on the ninth floor.”

“I doubt many people run the risk of getting us confused.”

With a wide smile, Sterling asks, “Oh, you husband works here?”

“Yes, Andy Flynn. He’s a lieutenant up in Major Crimes.”

Sterling’s response is all wide-eyed smothered surprise, with her smile seeming to freeze in place. Her eyes flit to Brad. “Oh! That’s...so great!”

Sharon slides her own gaze to her former partner, who presses his lips into a suppressing line as he nods. “It  _ is _ great.” He lifts his folder to Sterling. “I’ll get back to you soon.” He continues down the hall, throwing a last point over his shoulder as Sharon follows. “Keep an eye on your inbox.”

Sharon waits until they’ve passed several doors before addressing her curiosity. “Bradford…”

“Sharon…” he mimics her warning tone.

“Why does young Laurel seem to know who Andy is?”

“Well,” he slows to a stop at the door of his office, lifting his arm to invite her into the room first. As she passes, he continues. “Some of his antics with that partner of his make for excellent training points.”

As she settles their breakfast onto his conference table, she lifts a brow. “Seriously?

He crooks a thumb toward the now-closed door. “I need examples for these fresh detectives. What’s a, let’s say,  _ bumbling _ mistake, versus what’s done with malicious intent.” When Sharon lowers her chin toward him, he adds, “C’mon, you have to admit that he and Provenza have provided extensive examples of the former.”

“And you wonder why he glares at you in the hallway?”

“It’s for the youth!” Brad argues this with a smile that’s pure mischief. “How are they supposed to improve without learning the older generation’s mistakes?”

Can she argue Andy and Lieutenant Provenza’s repeated questionable decision-making? No. Have they found themselves visiting these offices more often than the average officers? Absolutely. Does she, for obvious personal reasons, take issue with Brad using them as training fodder? Yes.

As she doles out boxes and cups, dividing her meal from Brad’s, Sharon says, “I want to lodge my official displeasure with this.”

“I don’t talk them down  _ too _ much.” He brings his palm to his chest. “Promise.”

“I hope not.” Content to let the issue drop now that she’s said her piece, Sharon settles into a chair and unsheaths a pen and notebook from her purse. With her supplies in place and her offering laid out, she nods toward his folder. “Are those your findings?”

“Yeah,” Brad sighs, lowering into his own chair. “But before we start, I need some assurances.”

Her eyes narrow along with her wary, “Okay.”

“Keep in mind these are mostly unproven, uninvestigated allegations.”

“I understand,” Sharon says as she busies herself with unwrapping her utensils. “Even if I don’t understand the ‘uninvestigated’ part.”

“We’ll get to that.” His voice hardens. “But I need you to treat this information as if you’re getting it from a confidential source.”

She lets a long nod convey her agreement, but asks, “Is Captain Williams being shielded by someone, Brad?”

His eyes widen. “Shielded?” He recovers from his surprise with a sip of coffee, then, “I don’t know. I don’t  _ think _ so.”

Over a forkful of omelet, Sharon says, “It just seems odd to me, that someone with so many allegations against him, unproven or not, would be plucked out of Harbor Division and deposited into the Major Crimes CO position.”

Having dug into his own breakfast, Brad chews thoughtfully through a slice of bacon. “I’m not saying he doesn’t have a patron somewhere in this building. But I’m not sold on the idea that there’s some grand conspiracy at work, either.”

Following a noncommittal hum, she lets her voice swing toward doubt. “How many retracted allegations, again?”

“Twelve.” His mouth flattens into a thin line as he opens his notebook to a page filled with his near-cryptographic writing. “Plus four reports that  _ were  _ investigated. Two of those ended up being substantiated.”

“Oh?”

“Let’s start at the beginning.”

As they make their way through breakfast, Brad narrates the winding path of Williams’ career. He graduated from the Academy in 1985, with an undistinguished, but solid enough, record. He completed his field training in Foothill Division and remained there afterward as a full-fledged patrol officer. During these early years, he was the subject of several low-level civilian complaints, the kind many officers rack up while working with the public: insufficient politeness, small bills “disappearing” from arrestees’ wallets, incivility toward the rich and well-positioned, excessive force in the form of pushing and/or pulling. None of it was concerning enough to keep his supervisors from promoting him to sergeant in 1993.

With the boost in rank came a move to Hollywood. His stint there was short, however.

“This is where the two substantiated allegations come in,” Brad explains. “In 1994, two female senior patrol officers reported him for his persistent use of demeaning language during roll calls.”

“So this was corroborated, then?”

“Yeah, with statements from ten other officers on the squad.” Brad leafs through several pages from his file. “They detailed his repeated use of terms like ‘bitch’ and ‘whore’ to describe his subordinates, the reporting parties.”

Sharon finds herself sucking on her teeth, a physical barrier to keep from questioning why Williams hadn’t been fired then and there. It’s a moot point now, of course, and one that distracts from the current problem. The LAPD was a different, overall more hostile environment in the early 90s. Her own experience speaks to that. And it isn’t as if Brad can answer for his predecessors’ decisions.

Even so, the rest of her omelet becomes less appetizing.

Brad continues, following a wide-mouthed bite of cinnamon roll that leaves a coat of icing along his upper lip. His first words are, thus, muffled behind a napkin. “So that left him temporarily demoted,” he drops the napkin back onto the table, “and transferred down to Harbor. Command there parked him on graveyards, which, given the location, I’m guessing had few, if any, women at that time.”

And that so-called solution from the brass, working around the issue rather than addressing it head-on, gave Williams the slack he needed to “prove” his rehabilitation. Tucking him away apparently kept him out of trouble for several years, and his bosses at Harbor bought his improvement. When the chief called for a surge of new lieutenants in 2001, Williams rode along on the wave. A glowing letter of recommendation from his commander boosted his application.

“His bosses liked him so much, he ended up back at Harbor following his leadership training.” Brad shrugs. “Or maybe other divisions knew his reputation. Either way, he picked up where he left off.”

Even with Williams still on the night shift, complaints against him began to trickle in once more. And, this time, it was more than words.

“In late 2001, not long after the promotion, a sergeant reported him for inappropriate contact. Unfortunately, there were no witnesses and no physical evidence to substantiate the complaint.” Brad turns a page in his folder. “According to the notes, the sergeant accepted a transfer to Pacific when it became clear the case was at a standstill.”

Sharon bites her tongue until Brad explains that an almost identical scenario occurred six months later, this time with a 15-year-veteran patrol officer making the complaint. When it finally breaks through, her voice burns. “She was transferred too, I’m guessing?”

Brad’s face reddens as he drums his fingers on his notes. He knows, already, how bad it looks. “She  _ took _ a transfer to Wilshire, yes.”

“And Williams?”

“Stayed in Harbor. Looks like his commander moved him to days.”

With a scoff, Sharon says, “So he was  _ rewarded _ , then.”

“It’s hard to tell what the guy was thinking.” He levels a stare at her. “Williams would’ve been under more direct supervision during first watch.”

“I suppose.”

After unrolling a length of cinnamon roll and dipping it in his coffee en route to his mouth, Brad asks, “Should I go on?”

“Please.” Her answer is short, free of the guilt, or whatever, he’s trying to summon. Her disgust is warranted, no matter how stale the information is.

“It seems like bringing Williams into daylight helped, at least for a while. There were no complaints against him between 2002 and 2005.”

“A whole  _ three _ years.”

Brad ignores her gritted point. “The next report came in November 2005. And this is where I first crossed paths with him,” By that point, Sharon had taken over FID and he had moved to IA. “It’s also where things started to get weird.”

“The retractions, you mean.”

“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “In this case, the officer accused him of forcibly kissing her in his office. But, before we even had a chance to interview her, she withdrew the complaint.”

_ Why? _ Sharon wants to burrow into this woman’s viewpoint.  _ Why fire a shot and retreat? What had her turning tail? _

To Brad, she asks, “How long did that take?”

“Um,” he trails a finger down the page, coming to rest about halfway down. “Five days from the submission to the retraction.”

“And that became a pattern?”

“Right. The allegations ran the gamut between use of pejorative language to, again, inappropriate touching. And it's a long list, as you already know. Two in 2006, another in 2007. He had a  _ banner  _ year in 2008 — four reports.” Sharon’s stomach turns as Brad explains, “By this point, Williams was able to claim that the allegations were about nothing more than petty women who didn't like his management style.”

She shakes off this observation, staring at the tally marks in the top corner of her notebook. “I count twelve.”  _ Just finish it _ .

He nods, getting her message. “There were two more in 2009.” His jaw goes stiff. “Then, recently, there was one report in 2016, and another in 2017—”

_ “—What!?—” _

“—Both were,” Brad continues, unswaying, “like the others, retracted after about a week.”

“And, still, he ended up here?”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” His voice, surprisingly, carries a similar level of disgust. After pushing a copy of his typed notes toward her, he leans back into his chair, spent. “Honestly, I can’t help but wonder whether this long line of investigations didn’t just make him savvier. A more effective predator, even — if that’s what he was doing.”

_ Williams operates like a pathogen, then.  _ She pictures Alonzo, with one of his many handouts, preaching the drawback of antibacterial soaps. _ Like a bacterium adapting and growing immune to the compound meant to defeat it.  _ “I’d say that’s a fair guess," she says.

They mull over the point in silence until Brad asks, “Does this answer your question, though?”

“In a way.” Sharon skims the document, catching dates and details of the tale he’d just laid out.

“You can understand why we weren’t able to investigate most of these.”

“Yes.  _ But _ .” She smooths the paper onto the table with a sigh, letting her gaze travel to the window overlooking his conference room. “At a certain point, haven’t we done these officers a disservice by drawing a line of conduct at what can be investigated, versus what can’t?”

His brows furrow into a line over his glasses. “I don’t follow.”

“I  _ mean _ , if sixteen women—” Catching the razor-sharp edge of annoyance in her voice, Sharon rolls her lips together and shakes her head. None of this is Brad’s fault. Taking it out on him will only further decay the situation.

“Sharon?”

She lets a long exhale flow through her nose before starting again. “Sixteen women, Brad.” Exhaustion has replaced her anger. It bears down on her. “How many others do you suppose didn’t bother to report? And, still,” she gestures toward the ceiling, up toward the ninth floor, where Amy Sykes now works under this man’s gaze. “Williams goes on with his life, with his career, moving ever onward and upward until he’s running Major Crimes.”

“I think…” Brad falls silent for a long moment, his eyes criss-crossing the table before lifting to hers. “ _ We _ are bound by due process, just like any other investigators. That’s how it is. But that doesn’t mean we’re not seeing a larger failure of leadership at play, here. Someone, at some point along the line, should have dealt with the problem. And we’ll probably never know why it didn’t happen.”

Maybe that’s true. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe there’s a long line of women who survived this, who can’t understand why the man who preyed upon them has been allowed to continue. Why he’s been allowed to  _ thrive _ .

That likelihood twists at Sharon, leaves her answering, “We’ll see.”

Having just stuffed the core of his cinnamon roll in his mouth, Brad shoots her a wary, narrowed stare.

Seeking a change of topic, Sharon nods to the remaining crumbs. “You got lucky. Gina’s cinnamon rolls are an endangered species, these days.”

The news further turns his last-bite smile toward a grimace. “A travesty,” he finally mumbles as he reaches for his coffee.

“I guess they’re not hip enough for their new clientele.”

“ _ Hip _ .” Derision soaks the word. “Who needs to be hip when you have sugar and cinnamon and butter and delicious, white flour?”

“The  _ youth _ , apparently.” She smirks at the recollection of his earlier point as she pulls her phone from her purse. “Now, about that dinner…”

He directs a good-natured groan toward the ceiling.

She lifts a brow at him. “I’m not going to force you into it, if —”

“No, no. I want to.” Brad straightens and shakes his head, growing serious. “It’s incredible, how things change right under our noses. In my mind, we’re not  _ that _ far removed from staking out dirty gang detectives and following it up with 10PM pancakes at Gina’s.”

Sharon smiles at the memory. “I know what you mean.”

“When I moved over to IA and we still saw each other  _ most _ every day, it didn’t take any extra effort. Then, you moved upstairs, and we'd only run into each other every now and then.” His eyes fall to the table as his shoulder lifts to his ear. “Next thing I knew, I hadn’t seen you in years and it seemed like I might not see you again, ever.”

“Hey,” she reaches out to squeeze his hand. “That’s a two-way street.”

“It is,” he says, with a long nod, “which is why I have no business turning down a dinner offer.”

She grins, turning to look at him from the corner of her eyes. “An offer, contingent on your ability to behave yourself.”

“I fully understand your life now includes your husband, whom I should get to know as something more than a name in a file.”

His rote delivery summons a laugh from deep in her chest, a welcome contrast to the weight of their earlier discussion. She logs into her phone. “You never know, Brad, you might find you have more in common with Andy than you think.”

“I…” Whatever he was going to say, he reconsiders. “Well, I already know he has a great taste in companions.”

Sharon snorts. “Lieutenant Provenza would be surprised to hear that.” Before opening her calendar app, she sends Andy a text.  _ Lunch? _ Then, staring at the mostly blank grid of her next few weeks, she asks, “What works for you?”

A glance finds that Brad has mirrored her movements, leaving him frowning at his own phone. “Uh, Saturdays probably work best. Sonia’s been flying all over the place for work.” He thumbs the screen. “But this week we have a thing up in Oxnard.”

“Wouldn’t want to disrupt your  _ thing _ ,” Sharon teases. A swipe to the left confirms the following weekend is out, too. “We’re going to a Dodgers game in San Francisco on the seventh.” The tickets are a gift from Ricky that they won’t be turning down, even if he  _ does _ plan to wear orange to the game. “How about the fourteenth?”

Brad stretches out a noncommittal sound, followed by, “Let me see.”

An incoming text drops onto her screen, Andy’s reply.  _ Yeah, want me to drop by and pick you up? _

He’s been spinning on a case for several days, popping in and out of the condo at odd hours. Her meeting with Brad, unsurprisingly, hadn’t stuck in his memory.   _ No, I can meet you at the office. _

“Well,” Brad says, “it’s open as of now, so I’m claiming it.”

“Great. How about six, at our place?”

He nods. “That works.” Faint clicks accompany the movement of his thumbs. “It’s official, as soon as I get it in here.” 

Another message from Andy arrives.  _ You sure? _

_ Positive. _

When it comes to meeting Neil Williams, Sharon’s interest has reached an all-time high.


	8. Unstoppable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharon gets a firsthand look at Neil Williams and his dampening effect on the MC squad.

Sharon doesn’t know what to expect from herself as she steps onto the elevator and presses the button labeled “9.” 

This mostly explains why she took the effort required to convince Brad she didn’t need an escort for the four-story trip, visitor badge or no. Rules be damned, as she said.

(His eyes went large, at that point. He chased the expression with a good-natured, “Are you feeling okay?”)

Okay? Sure. Even with the Williams situation, her nerves aren’t imploding, collapsing onto an already overwhelming list of worries, the way they did the last time she left the Murder Room. Uncertainty had been as prominent, then, as the lingering sweetness of the ornate cake her team had presented to her. That disquiet was about more than her career, more than her legacy or even her team. It was a matter of her life. The doctor had been clear when he’d explained her need for a transplant: any onset of acute stress, like the one she’d experienced at her last crime scene, could have spelled the end of her old heart.

In that sense, the decision had been easy. As much as she loved her job, as much gratification and fulfillment it bestowed upon her, it was nothing compared to her family — her amazing, brilliant, and accomplished children, who still have so many milestones ahead of them; her uplifting, incredible, devoted husband, with whom she intends to spend a long and pleasurable retirement. Her choice may have required an emotional wake-up call from said husband, but it was straightforward. Her life for her career. It was a fair trade.

This is what Sharon works to keep in mind as she steps out of the elevator and onto the floor that brought so many edits to the story she’d long ago written for herself. A forever estranged wife, mother of two, a widely loathed IA investigator sitting, terminally, at the rank of captain; she’s none of those things, anymore. And so she breathes through an immediate weight on her chest and a sustained prickling at the corner of her eyes. She summons a wave of gratitude, letting it wash up and over her sense of loss.

She still has these people. That’s the important thing. She’s not their commander, but she still has them, and her life, and everything is okay. 

_ Mostly _ .

From around the corner, Lieutenant Provenza’s voice carries in its everyday way, grumping about Robbery-Homicide’s initial handling of their new case. Sharon trails her fingers idly along the wood-paneled wall as she follows the sound. She pauses at the open door to the Murder Room, her lips turning as she anticipates how his complaints will volley around the squad. Andy, of course, picks it up first.

“Yeah, but can you blame ‘em? They’ve practically got a gang of twelve-year-olds handling shit down there.”

“I absolutely  _ can _ blame them, for that very reason.”

“Sirs,” Julio says, and Sharon can almost hear his hand lifting, as if he’s interrupting a lecture. “I don’t think you can call them kids just because you were already detectives when they were born.”

In an almost simultaneous response, Provenza says, “Why the hell not?” and Andy asks, “What would  _ you _ call them, then?”

“Um,  _ adults _ ,” Amy answers matter-of-factly as someone — Mike, probably — laughs.

“Yeah,” Wes adds. “Incompetent adults, but adults nonetheless.”

Provenza grits, “Hush, you,” and Sharon figures she might as well make her entrance, before the conversation — if she can call it that — devolves further.

Of course, a biting comment from Buzz beats her to the chase. “Now, Sir, don’t get  _ too _ worked up. I wouldn’t want you to spill your coffee.  _ Again _ .”

Sharon enters the office to find Provenza leaning onto his desk, aiming a firm point at Buzz who, for some reason, sits at Andy’s desk. Before anyone notices her, she says, “Still starting fights, Lieutenant?”

He straightens as the rest of the squad turns toward her voice. With a deferential nod, he answers, “Always, Commander. Always.”

“Commander!” Mike leans back in his chair, beaming. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Oh,” she weaves her fingers together at her waist. “I happened to be in the neighborhood…”

As she trails off, Andy glances at his phone, brow furrowed. “Yeah, I guess  _ so _ ,” he mumbles. He’s stationed at the board, jacketless, coffee in hand, equal parts confused and rumpled.

Ignoring his point, Sharon lifts a shoulder. “I thought I’d check in.” Given her meeting with Brad, she can’t keep her gaze from finding Amy when she finishes, “And see how things are going.”

Provenza takes it upon himself to answer, though, in his typical, irreverent way. “Same old, same old. Bodies in the park, no one saw anything, unclear manner of death.”

It sounds too real, like he’s giving her a sitrep. The familiarity of it coaxes loss back toward the surface of her mind. Pushing it back under, Sharon hums noncommittally as she crosses behind the Lieutenant to stand next to Andy. 

But Mike picks up in the same vein. “Plus we’ve got a little inter-squad turf battle going on.”

“I see.”

Obvious or not, Andy must pick up on her unease. He changes the topic with a shrug. “Nothing we haven’t seen before,” and moves to set his coffee on Buzz’s desk.

Only it isn’t Buzz’s desk. It’s topped, now, with Andy’s nameplate, his Matchbox police cruiser, black leather blotter, and framed pictures. Sharon shoots him a questioning look, which he doesn’t meet. Instead, he nods toward Amy. “Though Sykes almost got into it with Sergeant Heller. That was new.”

Amy’s mouth turns toward an unconvincing grin. Her eyes drop to a pile of paperwork on her desk. “We had a disagreement about scene security. That’s all.”

“Yeah, well.” Provenza settles into his chair. “Heller didn’t see it that way. And now his lieutenant is throwing up every administrative roadblock in the book, trying to keep us from getting ahold of the evidence.”

The obvious nature of this problem’s solution overtakes Sharon’s sense of place. “Then why doesn’t your—” The stone in Provenza’s look leaves her biting off the rest of her point. It isn’t worth asking them  _ why  _ Williams doesn’t work to help his squad. All they know is that he doesn’t. “Nevermind.” 

Still, his lips curl into a sad grin when he says, “Oddly enough, nothing around here seems to get done with any kind of logic anymore.” He rests his palms on his desk and cranes around to look at Andy. “Speaking of things getting done, Flynn…”

The prompt is met with an exaggerated eye roll. “What now?”

“I think you’re on deck to fill out that stack of chain-of-custody forms—”

“No, no, no,” Andy drawls. “I did the  _ last _ set.”

“Oh, and just your luck,” Provenza stretches on a sarcastic smile. “I’m telling you to do this one, too.”

A retort appears to be incoming, but then Andy drops his mouth closed and shoots Sharon a mischievous grin. He sidles close to her, winding his arm, modestly, around her back. “Ooh, sorry,” his voice carries an overwhelming varnish of faux remorse. “Looks like I have a lunch date with my wife.”

Sharon takes a neat sidestep away from him and lifts a brow in his direction. “Are you really using me as a shield right now?”

He just shrugs as snickers break out around the room. She can’t completely smother her own smile, and she gives up trying when Provenza says, “He’s only  _ trying _ . It’s not going to work.”

“Hmm, well, even so,” Sharon forces herself into an approximation of sincerity. “Lieutenant, do you think you could spare him for an hour?”

He drops his head back in a show of frustration, earning another round of laughs from the squad. Even Andy lets out a chuckle at his partner’s antics. Provenza sits up with a muttered, “Ye Gods,” but Sharon doesn’t miss the slight upturn of his lips. “For you, Commander, I  _ suppose _ so.”

Sharon lets out a small laugh. She’s about to thank him, in kind, when the group’s mood shifts around her. Mike’s chair clunks into its fully upright position as he sits up and spins toward his computer. Wes follows suit. Buzz makes a beeline toward Electronics. Amy sighs, Provenza mutters something like, “Back to it,” and Andy’s spine stiffens. His heavy stare follows the source of the quick transformation.

A man has stalked into the Murder Room, following the same path Sharon had just taken. But he pairs his entrance with a cold glare that, after sweeping over the squad, seems to drive straight between Sharon’s eyes. In her peripheral vision, Andy scowls. The reaction confirms she’s seeing Neil Williams, in the flesh.

Two of his qualities stand out to Sharon. First is Williams’ height. In her current, high-heeled state, she has several inches on him. Second is that he’s objectively handsome. Not her type, of course, but with a square jaw, icy blue eyes, sandy hair swept into a stylish haircut, and a clearly muscular build under his close-tailored navy suit, he no doubt catches a fair amount of female attention. 

Then again, he has the hard, assessing air of a man with expectations. Maybe those expectations keep him hungry for the attention he doesn’t get. Or maybe Sharon projects what she knows of the man’s history onto his appearance. 

Either way, she notices the way Amy’s eyes lock onto her when Williams barks, “Do you have my warrant returns?”

“Not yet, Captain,” Mike answers, without turning around.

He growls a response, “A damned mess. We’ve got three bodies, no leads, and you’re all sitting around like it’s fucking Saturday afternoon at the ballpark.”

Andy’s jaw shifts. But he, surprisingly, blessedly, remains quiet, letting Provenza respond. “We’re waiting on an evidence transfer from RHD, Captain.”

Williams’ tongue pushes at his check before he scoffs, shakes his head, and says, “It’s always  _ something _ , up here.” His stare fixes on Sharon again, as if he’s daring her to argue. When she does nothing but meet him head-on, he turns heel and walks into his office.

At her side, Andy releases a long breath through his teeth as he trades a dark look with Provenza. Whatever their silent conversation entails, he relaxes when he turns to Sharon. “Now that we’ve got  _ that _ out of the way, you ready to go?”

“Actually,” she flutters her fingers over his chest, moving to quell the protest she’s about to receive. “I thought, since the Captain’s here now, I could check in with him on the status of the Stroh case.”

Andy’s eyes widen. “I don’t think you wanna do that.”

She narrows her gaze as her mouth curls into a challenging grin. “Oh, I think I  _ do _ .” 

Not only has her long illness depleted Sharon’s will to placate Andy’s overprotectiveness, she’s also curious to hear Williams, in his own words. Maybe in talking to him she’ll get a better sense of the man behind the misconduct reports.

Still, Andy doesn’t let it go. He shakes his head, his legitimate worry becoming clear. “Sharon, it’s not that I —”

“I’m just going to have a quick chat with him.” She doesn’t want to hash out his concern here. “Then we’ll go to lunch.” He continues wearing a vaguely nauseous expression, so she pats his arm and shoots him a sly smile over the frames of her glasses. “Don’t worry, Andy. I won’t hurt him  _ too _ badly.”

This works to reassure him, at least on the surface. A laugh escapes on a chuff of his breath. “Okay.”

She lets her fingers trail down to his hand, giving it a squeeze before making her way toward Williams’ door. Finding a similarly unsettled look on Amy’s face, Sharon aims another, hopefully comforting, grin in her direction. She lets her own show of calm carry her as she reaches out to rap on the doorframe. 

_ Of my own office _ , her mind unhelpfully supplies. 

_ Not anymore _ .

After several seconds, Williams bites out a, “Yes?” without looking up. His fingers tap across his keyboard in a steady stream.

Sharon takes a step into the room she knows as well as her own home. “Captain, I was hoping you’d have a minute to talk.” When she turns to close the door, she catches sight of Andy, his jaw set into a grim line as he watches from his chair.

Williams’ typing rhythm barely slows. “About what?”

“Do you mind if I sit?” 

Following a long, level stare, he makes a sweeping gesture toward the chairs across the desk. As she settles in, Sharon doesn’t waste any time getting to her point. “I’m curious as to whether there’s been any recent developments on the Philip Stroh case.”

His answer is just as quick, delivered across a pattern of mouse clicks. “I’ve transferred the case to Fugitives.”

This news is worse than she expected. The case will receive even less attention there than it would’ve in RHD. But she swallows her irritation and keeps her voice neutral when she asks, “Why?”

“Look, Mrs. Flynn—”

Before she can repress it, a short, disbelieving laugh sneaks past her lips in response to his transparent power play. He knows damn well who she is. His response proves it.

“What?” Williams’ smirk is just shy of enraging. “You want me to call you ‘Commander,’ like all your former underlings out there?” He cocks his head, making a show of waiting for her answer. When she doesn’t give him one, he says, “You’re here as a private citizen, are you not?”

Her brow lifts in a silent challenge, but he marches onward undeterred. “The Stroh case doesn’t fall under the purview of Major Crimes anymore.”

Sharon keeps her voice glassy smooth. “How so? He’s a serial murderer and rapist.”

“Who never even made it to trial for those crimes.” Williams finally angles to face her. “He killed a judge, and there’s physical evidence of that, not to mention a couple of actually  _ credible  _ witnesses, which is a lot more than can be said for,” he flicks his hand toward the wall, “the rape stuff.”

_ The rape stuff? _ Sharon rolls her shoulders, working to slough off her initial, angry reaction. “I believe what you’re referring to is the rape and murder of multiple women, plus the attempted murders of an LAPD deputy chief and a witness to his crimes.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard you have a special interest in that last part.” He leans back into his chair, sliding his hands along its arms. “But, you see, this squad, and this department, don’t exist to cater to your  _ interests _ .”

She pushes back from the desk and stands, having burnt off whatever patience she had for his bullshit. It’s clear he won’t reconsider. Still, she resists giving him the satisfaction of her indignation. “Thank you, Captain, for taking this matter so  _ seriously _ .” She moves toward the door.

He chuckles. “You don’t need to get emotional about it.”

It’s his laughter that does it.

“ _ Emotional? _ ” She turns on him so quickly, he’s left inching his chair backward. “This isn’t about my emotions. It’s about justice for the women Stroh violated and killed, for the people he’s terrorized, for the string of deaths that have followed him across the country over the last year—”

“And you can prove that?” He sneers. “That he’s killing again?”

On this, Williams has her cornered. Sharon’s heart sinks, even as she fights to keep her expression neutral. “Not without a full investigation. Which is why—”

“So that’s a ‘no,’ then.” He re-stacks a pile of paper on his desk. “As much as I just  _ love  _ pulling in tips from the general public, I’m gonna have to pass on this one.” Nodding toward the door, he adds, “You wanna nag someone about Mr. Stroh? Go talk to Garcia in Fugitives. My division,” he pauses for a Cheshire-cat smile, “has better things to do.”

As he turns back to his computer, Sharon closes the remaining distance between herself and the door. But Williams’ cloying voice stops her again. “Oh, and Mrs. Flynn?”

Sharon grits her teeth and turns back to him with a brow lifted. His gaze remains fixed on his monitor. “We’re on a case right now, so none of my detectives can spare time for a,” he pauses, then his voice curls into distaste, “ _ lunch date _ .”

With a puff of humorless laughter, she stretches her mouth into a grin that, she’s sure, looks as sweet as antifreeze. She lets her tone match. “Captain Williams. Policy states every officer receives an hour break for each ten-hour shift worked.” When he finally bothers to glare up at her, Sharon’s expression turns toward teeth-baring. “I wouldn’t want you to be in violation of labor laws.”

She doesn’t wait for his response, pulling open the door closest to Andy’s —  _ Buzz’s _ , she corrects herself — desk. Beyond the threshold, all eyes in the Murder Room lift to meet her. Aiming to reassure them, she allows her genuine happiness at seeing her team drown out Williams’ pigheadedness. Her eyes crinkle with the force of a real smile. “Lots of hard work going on out here, I see.”

“Always, Ma’am,” Julio answers.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” She looks to Andy, who’s already standing at his desk with his jacket back in its rightful place. “You ready?”

He nods, trades a firm look with Provenza, and trails Sharon’s path through and out of the office. She sheds her smile as she goes, replacing it with a grimace as she rubs her temple. Once she reaches the hall, she slows to let Andy’s longer strides catch up with her. His palm finds the small of her back, but he remains silent until they reach the elevators. 

As he reaches for the downward button, he leans closer to her. “The Captain’s charm must’ve been front-and-center.”

“Is it that obvious?”

With a shrug, he says, “It is to me.” He takes her hand, tracing his thumb over her knuckles.

She meets the gesture with a hum. “Darling, I have a whole new appreciation for you, putting up with  _ that  _ every day.”

“Thanks, I think.” He frowns. “So I’m guessing the news wasn’t good, then.”

“The news was bad. The  _ delivery _ was, somehow, worse.”

“Of course.” His eyes flit toward the floor indicators, then he guides them toward an approaching car. As the door opens, he asks, “So do you have a plan for the Stroh thing?”

Well removed from the situation, Sharon’s anger approaches with a delayed onset. Heat rises to her face as they step into the empty elevator. “No.” Her voice cuts as she jabs the lobby button, “But I have a plan to nail Williams to the wall.” She fixes Andy with a sidelong look, knowing he’ll appreciate the sentiment. “Preferably in Chief Pope’s office.”

He smirks at her as the doors slide closed. “Sign me up for that project.”


	9. In the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion with Father Stan helps Sharon unpack her complex reaction to the pattern of harassment she's uncovered.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

The next declaration leaves Sharon raking through her memories to what feels like a lifetime ago, back to a morning when she’d labored up the steps at Saint Joseph’s for a fourth round of Last Rites.

Her future had seemed short, then. Those days were filled with plans of a productive but macabre nature, choices made and documented in the event a new heart didn’t present itself before her old one ground to a stop. There were never enough hours in that stretch of weeks. There was never enough time to map out a future she wouldn’t see, or to string together words that would lessen the storm of worry and love that threatened to burst from her chest. Still, she’d crafted a thick mask of hope that she carried for the benefit of her family.

It was exhausting.

But visiting the church had required a different kind of energy altogether. She’d slunk away from the condo at dawn that morning, dodging questions that would’ve required an explanation. Andy and Rusty wouldn’t have understood, if she’d had to tell them what she was doing, and she’d wanted the drive to represent a thoughtful solitude rather than the weight of abandonment.

As it turned out, that last trip occurred the day before her transplant. A stroke of grace.

“It’s been...nine weeks since my last confession.”

_Nine weeks_. The number leaves Sharon blinking at the back of the door she entered seconds before. She’s hard-pressed to remember a longer stretch of time when she’s avoided the confessional.

As if reading her mind, Father Stan says, “You’ve had a few other concerns.”

Sharon shakes off his justification and continues, “In that time, I’ve lied...several times.” She nearly leaves it at that. But those weren’t _just_ lies, not really. Not given the people on the receiving end. So she adds, “To my husband and children.”

“I’m a bit surprised to hear that.”

What was it that she’d told him during her premarital sessions with Andy? _Honesty is the foundation of our relationship._ And it was. It is. _But_...

She lets her voice go wry. “Father, had I answered truthfully every time they asked if I was feeling okay, they never would’ve left the hospital.” Her gaze travels to a carved flourish above the door. “Well, the kids, anyway.”

Stan chuckles. “Andy wasn’t going to leave either way, was he?”

“No. No he wasn’t.” Sharon studies her hands, a grin turning her lips at the glint of her rings in the faint overhead light. “He didn’t believe me, anyway.”

“I’ve enjoyed seeing him at Mass recently.”

“Hmm, I think he’s enjoyed it, too. Though he’s not likely to admit it.”

“So I shouldn’t expect to start seeing him for confession?” The question carries a sheen of humor. It isn’t meant to prod.

“He exorcises his demons on Wednesday nights. Monday and Friday, too, depending on the week.”

“Right. I’m glad he has that outlet.” Stan’s voice goes thoughtful as he returns to the point of her visit. “So you told a few... _preservational_ lies to your family.” Sharon can’t hold back a quiet chuff of laughter at his description, but otherwise remains silent until he asks, “Is there anything else?”

“I haven’t had the physical capacity to do anything much more more involved than lying, Father.”

He knows her well enough to pick up what she’s left unsaid. “But?”

“But,” she sighs, “I’ve been...weighed down by guilt recently. Granted, none of it involves sins, per se...”

“Yet you believe it’s still worth addressing here.” After a pause, he asks, “Is this about the heart again? Because—”

“No, no. It’s not that.” Sharon twists her hands together in her lap. “I can’t say that guilt is completely gone. But it isn’t a constant presence like it was before.”

“That’s good.”

She shakes her head as she untangles the situation, tries to force it into words. “What I’m feeling now is more nuanced. It’s about...work I’ve left undone.”

“That’s only natural. You’re in the midst of a big transition, out of a life of labor and into…” He trails off into a moment of thoughtful silence, followed by, “Well, whatever comes next. It’s a change that doesn’t often get the kind of attention it deserves.”

“That’s certainly part of it, Father.” Still, this doesn’t seem to touch the weight that sent her here. “I think it may be worse because I still carry a sense of responsibility for my team.”

“You’re a tight-knit group, brought together to face some of the worst humanity has to offer. I doubt that kind of bond just...disappears.”

“It doesn’t. But my ability to look out for them has.” Emotion presses at her eyes. This, then, is the heart of it. It’s the reason she can’t duck away from the worried clutch of her gut.

“I see.” A rustle of fabric marks movement on the other side of the divider. “That must be difficult. Especially with your husband involved.”

This would make sense. It would be the easier answer. From Andy’s after-work grumbles, Sharon hears enough about the new pecking order to understand how deeply it bothers him. But she’s never been his protector. Even if he believes she was.

“Even when I _was_ his boss, I had little hope of protecting Andy.” She pictures him hobbling into her office, part-broken and scraped to hell after a run-in with a car. “From himself, especially.”

It sounds like a joke, even to her own ears. But it isn’t. It’s a truth she’d had to work through, years ago.

To his credit, Father Stan recognizes the gravity of her point. “I believe that’s a reflection of your status as equals in your relationship. It might not be easy, but, from my viewpoint, it’s commendable.” As Sharon nods, he continues. “So, is there someone else you’re particularly worried about?”

A weeks-old conversation rushes forth. _I think I could probably get used to the way things are, if it didn’t feel like the Captain is sidelining me from the kind of work he’s giving the others._

“I work with—” Sharon bites off her own point with a shake of her head. “I _worked_ with a fantastic young woman—”

“Detective Sykes, yes?”

“Yes.” Sharon grins at his recognition. “She’s bright, resourceful, eager to learn; an all-around talented detective. She should be destined for a distinguished career as a leader within the department.”

Father Stan is quiet for a few seconds. “You’re worried that your absence will affect her prospects, somehow?”

Her answer trails a sigh, revealing her uncertainty toward her role in the issue. “That seems self-centered of me, doesn’t it?” She doesn’t wait for his answer. “I never singled her out. I never wanted to do that with any of my officers. But I _did_ try to ensure she’d gain the skills she needs to rise up the ranks.”

“You think that won’t happen now.”

“I don’t know. But I’m worried she’ll...wither up, maybe, under the leadership of a man who apparently has a history of marginalizing women.”

“Ah.” His voice goes taut. “That’s a different issue.”

“It is, but…”

“But?”

“My leaving made way for him to take over.”

With well-practiced ease, he volleys back. “You had no way of knowing that would happen.”

“And yet, here we are.” Sharon leaves the core of her point unspoken. _Here I am, weighed down by the consequences of my choice._

“It can be difficult, sometimes, to understand the meanings beneath the challenges we face, the lessons we’re meant to grasp in trying times.”

“That’s true.” She draws a deep breath. “But, at the same time, I’m starting to see where I might be in a unique position to do something about this particular problem.”

Brad’s barebones list of accusations has occupied most of her attention since their meeting yesterday morning. It’s also left a sick pit within her. Williams not only mistreated — and possibly assaulted — multiple women while ascending the ranks, he also did so while Sharon herself was in a position of responsibility for those women. Or, at least, in a position to promote their larger career opportunities, which would have been moot if they were being harassed by their superior.

No matter how far removed she was from the situation, she can’t smother the fear burning through her, that, as the Women’s Coordinator, she could’ve fronted some initiative, some update, that may have saved the women of the LAPD from Williams and his ilk.

As if reading her mind, the priest says, “And yet you seem hesitant to get involved.”

Hesitant?

Sharon is clear on the fact that Williams’ behavior needs to be addressed. She cannot dispute that the LAPD has allowed his predatory ways to continue far too long. And she can’t deny the weight of her guilt and responsibility.

But, for all her heated bravado following her face-to-face with Williams, she falters on the matter of how closely she has a right to be involved with the solution.

“Over the past few days, I haven't been able to shake the memory of a woman whose murder we investigated last year. She was retired from the LAPD, too.” Sharon omits details of Mary Conrad’s least illustrious activities near the end of her career and thereafter, focusing on the relevant point. “She had a habit of running around, identifying herself as a retired detective, using her past association with the LAPD as a token to get herself out of trouble. We spoke to a couple of patrol officers from the division where she lived, and I’ll never forget the...the pity and embarrassment on their faces as they described her shtick to us.”

“I see.”

Sharon brings her hand to her chest, opening her mouth to words that don’t come. After wetting her lips, she tries again. “I was never what anyone would consider a ‘cops’ cop.’ Not like Andy. Or Lieutenant Provenza. I spent decades of my career separated from that fraternity. But I’m surprised, now, at how much the job became intertwined with my being, how much I miss it now.”

“So you’re worried you may be pursuing a solution to this problem out of some selfish agenda, to somehow regain your standing.”

Her fingers curl around the chain of her necklace. “My involvement might not be as noble, or as helpful, as I want it to be.” After a moment, muffled chuckling reaches her ears. “Father?”

“I’m sorry, Sharon.” He clears his throat. “It’s just...you’re one of the most thoughtful people I know. Everything you’ve just said shows how much consideration you’ve given the matter.”

“I suppose so —”

“But what I trust even more than your reflection,” his voice grows serious, “is your commitment to truth and justice.”

A lump forms in Sharon’s throat. Unable to swallow past it, she allows it to thicken her voice when she speaks. “I feel drawn to this cause, Father.”

“Then I suggest you pursue it. Even if you fear what it could mean for you. Focus on your intention and hold fast to objectivity. You may find the experience strengthens your faith.”

“I would welcome that.”

A smile carries on Father Stan’s voice as he says, “Now, as penance, I suggest you commit a specific act of love and thankfulness to each member of your family in the coming days.”

Sharon lifts a brow, but smooths surprise from her voice when she answers, “I will.”

It isn’t the usual chain of Our Fathers, but it’s an atonement that fits the sin, she supposes. And, perhaps, it’s a reflection of the season. When she steps from the confessional a few minutes later, the nave is abuzz with quiet activity despite the still-early hour. Preparations are underway for the evening’s Mass of the Last Supper and the rest of the Easter Triduum. Student volunteers from the school file across the space, wiping pews and kneelers, mopping across the tile, dusting every crevice, shelving crisp-paged Bibles. Gradually, they restore the sanctuary to its Holy Week best.

Tomorrow, Sharon will fast in observance of Good Friday. She’ll return to Saint Joseph’s in the dusk of Saturday evening for the Easter Vigil, take part in restoring light to the church in celebration of Christ’s resurrection. And, in the interim, her thoughts will drift over worship and sacrifice, suffering and rebirth, joy and pain; the building blocks of belief.

Father Stan’s words echo through her as she walks down the church’s front steps. _You may find the experience strengthens your faith_.

In that sense, there’s no time like the present. Sharon pulls her phone from her purse, increasing the ringer volume off silent. She opens her contact list and taps an entry from near the top of the list. A pleasant greeting meets her after two rings, leaving a wide smile on her face.

“Good morning to you too, Amy. I know you’re busy on a case, but I was wondering whether you’d be willing to introduce me to your friends from Harbor Division.”


	10. Then We Are Like Lions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharon and Amy discuss the work environment at Harbor Division with two women who experienced it firsthand.

The following Wednesday evening finds Sharon stepping from Amy’s car at the valet stand of a wine and pizza bar in Venice. They’d filled the drive from Los Feliz with small talk, mostly covering the antics Andy will never fess up to in his daily recap of life on the squad. Amy sketched out a series of missteps, one-liners, a few light pranks, and several snide remarks made at Captain Williams’ expense. Now, quickly approaching their dinner with Amy’s contacts from Harbor Division, they set their easy banter behind them.

Amy catches Sharon’s eye as she rounds the hood of her car. “If I can ask, what are you hoping to learn from this?”

“Of course you can ask, you’re my second here,” Sharon answers on a chuckle. But, with a shake of her head, she grows serious before clarifying, “I’d like to understand the culture that protected Captain Williams’ behavior in Harbor Division. And, eventually, I want to get to the bottom of the withdrawn harassment accusations.”

Amy nods. “Well, this is as good a place to start as any.” She cuts her eyes to Sharon with a lopsided grin as she pulls open the door. “It could get interesting, though. I don’t have much experience interviewing cops.”

“It gets old fast, trust me.”

As Sharon approaches the hostess stand to explain they won’t need their own table, Amy stands a few paces away, scanning the restaurant. Within seconds, her grin widens into a full-bore smile as her eyes catch on a point across the dim room. Following her gaze, Sharon finds two women waving from a prime windowside table. Their forms appear in half-silhouette thanks to the oceanfront sunset happening outside.

“Hey!” Amy calls before closing the distance in a series of long strides. The nearest of the women holds out her arms and pulls Amy into a tight hug. They could be sisters — both given the greeting and their similar appearances. Their obvious shared affection eases Sharon’s uncertainty as she approaches.

“I’m surprised you remember what I look like,” the woman teases. She nods across the table. “Birkhoff and I were trying to decide whether you’d come over.”

Still smiling, Amy smacks her arm. “It hasn’t been  _ that _ long.”

“Uh-huh. That smooth undercover lieutenant of yours is keeping you all kinds of busy, I guess.”

Sharon’s left wondering about the way Amy’s expression pauses at the mention of Chuck. But she moves onward with a shrug. “More like my new captain’s driving me insane.”

Her friend’s face falls. “Ah. Right.”

Amy steps back, gesturing Sharon into the conversation. “Sergeant Raquel Stewart, meet Commander Sharon Raydor.”

Fixing Amy with a narrow faux-glare, Sharon corrects, “ _ Retired _ commander.” As she shakes Raquel’s hand, she adds, “Please, call me Sharon.”

“Sure thing,” Raquel says. She nods toward her companion, a slight young woman with a blonde pixie cut and chunky green glasses rounding her blue eyes. “This is my partner—” she breaks off with an eye roll and amends, “Well, soon-to-be  _ former _ partner, now that she’s abandoning me to become a detective.”

This accusation hangs in the air for a moment while the blonde shakes her head and turns a faint shade of pink. “Anyway, Amy, Sharon, this is Bree Birkhoff.”

“Hey y’all.” Bree’s voice rolls on a soft drawl as she leans over the table to exchange handshakes. “Nice to meet you.” She clears her throat and sniffles into a tissue as she settles back into her seat.

“C’mon,” Raquel tilts her head toward the empty chairs. “I’m hurting for wine and pizza.”

“You and me both,” Amy mutters as she sits.

Sharon slides into the chair between Amy and the window, leaving her across from Bree as Raquel chatters about the menu. Given the informal nature of the meeting, Sharon hesitates in pulling her notebook from her purse. But she doubts Amy has concealed the reason behind their dinner plans; it’s meant to be a working meal, of sorts. So, before hanging her purse on the back of her chair, she settles her notebook — with a pen tucked into the binding — on her thighs under the table. 

As the food-related small talk fades away, Amy passes Sharon a questioning look. Catching the signal, she smiles at the unfamiliar women. “Bree, Raquel, thank you so much for agreeing to meet up tonight.”

“It’s no problem, believe me.” Raquel’s voice carries a clear note of steel. 

Their conversation pauses as a waiter stops by the table. Once they’ve ordered a round of wine and a plate of warmed olives, and taken a few minutes to idly peruse the rest of the menu, Amy eases back into the topic at hand.

“Raquel and I went to the Academy together,” she explains to Sharon, “and I knew she’s been working in Harbor for a while. She was the first person I called when I heard Captain Williams was taking over Major Crimes.”

“When Amy asked me if I had any tips for working with him…” Raquel shakes her head, leaving her darkened stare make the rest of her point.

Bree picks it up. “I mean, I was shocked. When I heard he was gonna transfer, all I could think was we wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. I had no idea he was getting  _ promoted _ .” She practically spits this last word.

With their jump into the heart of the matter, Sharon flips her notebook open and pulls the pen into her hand. But before addressing her own questions, she works to lay out a foundation. “I don’t know what kind of background Amy has given you, but I want to assure you I take this problem seriously. I spent most of my career in IA, so I know how these types of investigations are usually handled, and I’m determined to find out where the department has fallen short, here.”

Bree crosses her arms over her chest as she leans back into her chair. “Well, I’m sure glad to hear that. It’s about time  _ someone  _ looked into it.”

“We actually took bets,” Raquel says, “guessing how long it’d take for him to get fired.” Her eyes follow the waiter’s movement as he deposits their drinks and appetizer at the table. After he retreats toward the kitchen, she lifts her wine glass in a mock toast. “That was five years ago.”

A queasy weight, unique to matters of Neil Williams, settles over Sharon. The olives mock her from the center of the table, resting in a pool of glistening oil with flecks of spice and slices of charred red pepper. But her sauvignon blanc is icy cold and leaves a bracing citrus tang on her tongue. Almost as soon as the liquid hits the back of her throat, the invisible tension in her neck and shoulders begins to slacken. 

In an odd way, it fortifies her. If she’s ill over the thought of Williams’ behavior while sitting here, parked at a table full of women in a trendy wine bar, it’s no doubt a fraction of what the officers who were trapped under his harassing ways have experienced. With this in mind, Sharon pushes onward. “I’m curious as to how well-known his behavior was, within your division.”

With a nod, Amy asks, “Raquel, what was it you told me, during our first conversation?”

“Just that you’d need to keep your eye on him. Like the women at Harbor have always known to do.”

With a scoff, Bree says, “That’s saying it lightly, Stewie.” The end of her sentence dissolves into a hacking cough, which she muffles into her elbow.

The faintest flash of concern flits through Sharon’s mind — accompanied by an image of Alonzo and one of his charts — before she clicks her pen open and asks, “And who first told you about this approach toward the Captain?”

“I’m not sure,” Raquel answers. “It was just kind of...known. As far back as I can remember.”

Bree shakes her head. “My FTO told me. First night on patrol, clear as a whistle. ‘Stay out of Lieutenant Williams’ office.’” With a roll of her eyes, she adds, “He actually got promoted since I came on, if you can believe that.”

“Oh, so maybe I heard it from you, then.” Raquel shrugs. “Regardless, it was an unwritten rule in the division.”

“Specifically that you don’t go into his office alone?” Sharon asks.

“Yeah.” Bree sighs a humorless laugh. “I actually had more than one sergeant drag their feet over the years, hanging around until shift change if I needed something signed by the brass.”

Raquel snaps her fingers in her partner’s direction. “And there was that one sergeant in the admin office, remember?”

“Uh…”

“Kinda tall, green eyes, always had her hair in a french braid?” At Bree’s blank stare, she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth,“Whatever.” She turns her attention back to Amy and Sharon. “This sarge literally guided me away from his office once. Like, hand on my arm, almost pulling me back down the hall.”

Amy’s eyes widen. “You’re serious.” 

“Totally.”

Sharon straightens her back and lets her gaze float out the window, searching for phrasing amongst the crashing waves before taking in Bree’s face, then Raquel’s. She asks, “Would either of you be surprised to hear that a number of complaints have been filed against Williams over the past fifteen years?”

Both women’s faces go stony. Raquel answers, “No.”

Still, their silent replies point toward their deeper knowledge of the situation, Sharon takes a few careful seconds to note her question and the answer. Then, she swallows hard and looks to them again. “Would you be surprised to hear that the majority of those complaints were withdrawn shortly after they were filed?”

Here, their responses diverge. Raquel goes steely, her brows clenching low over a hard, disbelieving stare. But Bree’s gaze drops to a point past their table as her bottom lip disappears between her teeth.  _ She knows something _ . Amy’s lifted brow and sidelong glance says she agrees.

“It’s odd,” Sharon continues, “that so many reports would be recanted in such a short timeframe. It makes me wonder whether there might have been some kind of...misunderstanding.”

“No way.” Raquel’s voice goes gritty. “There’s no confusion here.”

“I mean, I bet that’s what  _ he’d _ say,” Bree adds. Her eyes narrow and he affects a man’s snarling voice, “Oh, it was just a  _ misunderstanding _ , I thought she  _ wanted _ it.”

The near-personal angle of Bree’s words nearly pull Sharon away from her tack. But they’ve mistaken her point, and now she has to scramble to restate it. “I meant a misunderstanding of these officers’ rights to an internal investigation.”

Amy picks her up. “If we want to understand how Williams got to where he is, we need to find out why those complaints were withdrawn. Doing that could help stop this from happening again.”

Again, Bree’s eyes fall, and again Sharon latches further onto the idea she knows much more than she’s offering. She hates to broach a painful topic, but she needs to gauge the depth of these women’s encounters with Williams. Her voice softens. “Bree, Raquel, did either of you have...personal experiences with Neil Williams?” 

“I didn’t, no,” Raquel answers. “I tried to give him a wide berth.”

Bree shrugs. Her face has flattened into a blank canvas. “Same here.”

Sharon jots  _ no personal experiences _ into her notes, taking the few seconds to strategize over her next questions. There’s a limit to how hard she can push, here. It’s an odd restraint after so many years of having the weight of prosecutors and sanctioned investigations at her back. The beats of the interview are familiar, but it is, in truth, an entirely new world.

Bree’s answer about her own experiences was straightforward enough, but her earlier reaction at the ‘misunderstanding’ is a mask for  _ something _ . Something she clearly doesn’t want to volunteer. Following a sip of wine, Sharon takes a step toward clarifying the situation. Her eyes lock on Bree’s. “Do you know of anyone who  _ did  _ have a personal experience with Williams?”

Once more, Bree bites onto her bottom lip. Her stare tries to bore a hole in the table as her brow draws into a deep line. As seconds tick past, her silence answers the question. In Sharon’s periphery, Amy and Raquel trade concerned glances. But she waits for Bree to give voice to the truth, waits as she pulls a long breath through her nose and lets her mouth fall open.

“Sorry about that wait, ladies!” All four women’s eyes dart to their waiter, who’s arrived to take their dinner orders. 

Raquel exhales a shaky, “Dude.”

“Oh, uh, sorry,” the man stammers, “do you need a second?”

Bree checks her phone, sighs, and says, “Actually, you know what, can you get my check?” 

Sharon’s brow lifts at her sudden rush to leave. A silent question from Raquel produces her reasoning. “Jason’s car died again He needs a ride home,” Bree explains to her partner. She eyes the last inch of wine in her glass before downing it in a smooth gulp.

Oblivious to the tension at the table, the waiter asks, “Is everyone else sticking around, or should I bring checks for everyone?”

“You know what?” Sharon waves him off. “Go ahead and put hers on my tab, and we’ll go from there.”

Bree blinks at her. “You don’t need to do that, ma’am.”

“It’s the least I can do for you agreeing to meet with me, Bree.”

“Well...thanks.” Her eyes don’t quite meet Sharons. “Nice to finally meet you, Amy. Stewie,” she squeezes her partner’s shoulder as she sidles past, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As Raquel’s gaze follows Bree to the door, she says, “Well, I don’t know about you ladies, but I could  _ definitely _ use some pizza now.” She slides her empty glass toward the waiter. “And more wine.”

Bree’s reaction, the way her anger built to a crescendo before she clammed up and retreated, sticks with Sharon for the rest of the evening. Back at home, lying in bed long after she turns in, she stares at the ceiling and puzzles through the logic of it. Why would Bree agree to go to dinner, ostensibly knowing the topic of conversation, and then go quiet once the questions grew specific? Did Raquel pressure her into it? Did she come to weigh Sharon’s commitment to the cause, her sincerity? Or, having stoked the conversation into a blaze, did her courage float away like smoke on the wind?

Did Bree not trust what she found? 

This last possibility strikes Sharon as both the most likely and most worrying of the list. If she can’t coax the truth from a righteously outraged young woman who has a close friend at her side, how will she manage to reach the dozen other women who hold the key to understanding Williams’ ascent?

She drifts off as she turns this over and over. Before she realizes she’s fallen asleep, she’s blinking awake again on the unmistakable rumble of a phone vibrating against wood. The sound sends her angling toward Andy’s bearish growl, opting to lend words to her matching irritation. 

“He’s calling you in  _ again? _ ”

Light splashes over his side of the bed as he picks up his phone. After a second or two, his expression knits into a heavy frown. “Uh, it isn’t me.”

“What?”

Andy holds the phone up, displaying its blank screen. “And here I thought you were beyond late night wake-ups.” He stretches onto his back, stashing the phone face-down on his nightstand.

“Me too.” Sharon’s voice is a distracted half-mumble as she rolls toward her own nightstand. Following a few open-palmed pats to locate her glasses and deposit them onto her face, she picks up her phone. A message notification from an unfamiliar number hangs across the screen. Foreboding settles onto her stomach like a bowling ball as she unlocks the device. The first few lines of the message affirm the sensation.

_ Commander, this is Bree. I hope you don’t mind that I asked Sykes for your number. I apologize for the late message, and for keeping the truth from you earlier. _

Andy must notice her sharp inhale, because he props himself on his elbows beside her. “Sharon, what’s up?”

She shoots him a glance as she extinguishes the screen. “It’s nothing. Just a follow-up from dinner.”

“At midnight.” His voice carries all the skepticism she’d no doubt glean from his face, if she could see it.

“They work graveyards.” He doesn’t need to know Bree and Raquel aren’t on duty tonight. In fact, it’s better, for now, that he doesn’t know anything about her research into Williams at all. Not until she knows something for certain, anyway. He still has to work for the man, and if Andy has a history of anything, it’s letting the personal override the professional. His job will be more secure without him knowing what she digs up.

With this in mind, Sharon flips the covers off her legs. Andy, unsurprisingly, protests. “Wait, babe, where’re you going?”

“I’m just taking care of this, getting a drink of water, then I’ll be back.”

“But—”

“I don’t want to keep you awake,” she explains as she slides off the mattress.

“ _ You’re _ the one who’s supposed to still be taking it easy, remember?”

His doggedness leaves her grinning, despite herself, as she swings her robe over her shoulders. “And I’m  _ also  _ the one who can sleep in as long as I want in the morning.” She manages to make this sound at least halfway convincing, even though they both know she’s far from mastering the art of staying in bed late. “Go back to sleep,” she whispers.

Following the soft thump of him flopping back onto his pillow, his heavy sigh chases her into the living room. With the door closed behind her, Sharon steps gingerly toward the kitchen, letting habit and an outstretched hand guide her to the switch for the under-cabinet lights. True to her word, she pulls a pitcher of water from the fridge and half-fills a glass before unlocking her phone again.

She skims past the already familiar first lines before slowing to absorb Bree’s words:  _ When you asked if we knew anyone who’d had a experience with Williams, I didn’t know what to say. Same with whether we knew about the withdrawn complaints.  _

A chill races down Sharon’s spine and through her legs. She grips the phone in both hands as she scrolls down.

_ A lot of us have suffered under him. I think I only know the tip of it. Especially when it comes to not reporting him to IA. But I know my old FTO would be able to give you more information. Sergeant Angela Masuki. She’s up in Pacific now. Like I said, she made sure I knew about Williams from the get-go. It isn’t my place to tell her story, but if you want someone who had a personal experience, she’d be an option.  _

The long block of the first message is followed by a nub of a follow-up:  _ Please don’t tell her I told you. _ _ _


	11. Keeping Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharon salvages the Williams-induced wreckage of the San Francisco trip.

_ Dear Angela, _

Sharon mouths the words, weighing their familiarity. They feel mismatched against the information she, a stranger, plans to ask in the coming paragraphs. With a sigh, she holds down the backspace until the email reads blank once more. 

The blinking cursor mocks her. How many simple, concise, and effective emails did she shoot off on an average day of her LAPD career? How often did she wrestle over what greeting to type?

Never. When would she have had time? She sets to typing.

_ Good morning, _

This line earns a squinting evaluation. With gritted teeth, Sharon tripleclicks and jabs the delete key. It’s ridiculous, how she wrestles with this. It’s just a request for information, after all. A purely factual exchange.

A purely factual exchange of  _ extremely personal information. _

Her fingers tap across the keyboard again.  _ Lieutenant Masuki, _

This, of all the options, feels most appropriate. An acknowledgment of the woman’s rank — for Bree Birkhoff’s information was a bit outdated and Angela Masuki is now a lieutenant, nothing to sneeze at — sets a tone that’s respectful without being cold. It’s a solid foundation.

Unfortunately, that’s all Sharon has. Not even metaphorical blueprints exist to support this mansion of a proposition. And a cement slab of a greeting is all she’ll have for a while, now, as approaching footsteps usher in the beginning of the condo’s morning rush.

“Cookies?”

Sharon glances over the screen of her laptop as her husband beelines toward a cooling rack on the counter. “Andy…” she draws her voice into a warning, even if she can’t quite flatten her lips. “Those are for the trip.”

Through a cookie-filled mouth he mumbles what might be, “But they’re right out of the oven,” as he pours coffee.

“Yes, I know.” 

Between swallows, he adds, “Mm, they’re really good,” and pairs the compliment with a kiss to her cheek. “Really,  _ really _ good.”

With his proximity, Sharon takes the opportunity to grab hold of his wrist, anchoring him in place, safely away from the baked goods. He raises a brow toward her grip, but his grin doesn’t fade. She hadn’t thought it was possible, but Andy’s anticipation for their trip to San Francisco has multiplied tenfold since he found out Ricky invited Nicole and Dean up for the game, too. 

Now, on the day of their drive out, an obvious and welcome buoyancy marks his mood. It’s contagious. Mixed with her normal travel jitters, it left her pulling together chocolate chip cookie dough at five-thirty in the morning as he stuffed a duffle bag with Dodgers gear.

Now, turning the stool to face him, she tips her mug toward his tie. “I thought you weren’t going in today.”

“I have a few reports I need to get submitted.” He dips his last cookie corner into his coffee. “But everyone knows I’m signing off at noon.”

“ _ Everyone? _ ” Her mind conjures an image of Neil Williams, scowling behind his desk. From what she hears, via an admittedly biased source, the Captain continues to wield a sharp-edged animosity toward Andy. Williams has a myriad of faults, which Sharon continues to unearth, but this one in particular tends to set off a wave of heat through her chest. Wholly unobjective, she knows.

“I took leave.” Andy shrugs. “And Provenza promised to run interference, if it comes to that.”

“Okay.” Her skepticism carries across the stretched word. 

“Who better to cook up a distraction, if I need one?” Over her shoulder, he nods at Rusty, who shuffles toward the dining room table with an armful of paperwork and his laptop, still bleary-eyed and pajamaed on his day off. “Hey, kid, fresh cookies on the counter.” 

Rusty doesn’t often display open enthusiasm, but this perks him up. “Oh, nice!” He crosses into the kitchen and gathers a cookie in each hand. Half of one near-instantly disappears into his mouth.  

Sharon rolls her eyes, continuing to fail in her effort to bite back a smile. “I swear, between the two of you, none of these will even make it to San Francisco.”

After the guys display a disconcertingly similar shrug, Andy offers a suggestion, “Double batch?”

“Or maybe next time I’ll wait until I’m alone to bake,” she counters.

He pushes his bottom lip into a truly pitiful pout. “You’d deprive us of fresh-baked cookies?”

“Mom, that’s, like, cruel and unusual punishment.” A dab of melted chocolate marks the corner of Rusty’s mouth. 

“Ricky will say the same if he finds out I made these and none of them make it to him.”

Andy holds his coffee in a vaguely northward direction. “I say if Ricky wants guaranteed cookies, he can move back to LA.”

“Seconded,” Rusty says.

“Hey, Rusty,” Andy nods toward him, still tethered by Sharon’s grip around his wrist. From the corner of his mouth, he mutters, “Toss me another one.” 

A cookie sails in a flawless arc, landing in his hand. It’s the final straw. “You two! Out!”

“But...I didn’t even get any coffee!” Rusty whines.

“You should’ve thought about that before you started nabbing my cookies.” With a firm hand on his shoulder, she guides him past the counter. “Go.”

Once he’s standing slack-jawed beyond the kitchen, Sharon pulls the island stools into a sentinel line between the counter and the refrigerator, blocking access to the space she now occupies. Met with two glum looks, she turns her back to hide a grin as she prepares to pull another sheet from the oven. 

The guys meander on with their morning tasks as she transfers the freshest cookies over to cool and refills the parchment paper with neat scoops of dough. Sharon spends the next baking interval with her elbows propped on the counter, perusing the newest installment of the  _ Cooks Illustrated _ subscription she and Andy received as a wedding gift. The following interval finds her jotting ingredients for an appealing squash recipe...at least until a travel mug clangs onto the surface before her. 

Her raised eyebrow leaves Andy sheepish. “Uh, I need a refill before I go.”

It’s useless, trying to hold her faux-anger. Her smile cracks through before she’s as much as taken a step toward the coffee maker. With his mug filled, Sharon twists the lid tight and, recalling his earlier desolation at missing out on warm cookies, stacks two fresh, melty rounds atop it. With a sly grin, she hands it over. “Here you go.”

“You’re the best.”

“Yes I am.” Sharon tugs his tie, guiding him over her makeshift barrier for a kiss. “I’ll see you around noon?”

“Yep.” On his way to the door, he catches Rusty’s attention. “You got a blue shirt packed, kid?”

“I have a  _ white  _ shirt packed,” he answers without looking up from his computer, “as in, white flag, I’m not getting dragged into this baseball loyalty thing.”

The look Andy fires toward Sharon is all confused distress. He opens his mouth to counter, but she beats him to it. “We can worry about that  _ later _ .” Flattening her palms into a pushing motion, she adds, “See you in a few hours.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “Okay.” 

Once he’s out the door, Sharon moves the stools back into their rightful places. She sinks into the chair next to Rusty, a fresh mug of coffee in hand. His fingers travel across the keyboard in staccato, pursuing some mission or another. “Looks like a lot of work for your day off.”

“I think I figured out who Stroh’s second law school roommate was.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah.” Something about this information causes Rusty’s expression to darken. After a moment, he explains. “He lives in San Diego, and he does  _ not _ want to talk to me.”

Sharon squints toward his computer. “What’s his name?”

“David Burchell.”

The name itches at her. “Sounds familiar. Should I know him?”

“Well, he’s an ADA down there. Maybe you’ve talked to him about a case sometime?” 

“Mm, maybe.” She sips at her coffee as she studies Rusty’s profile. A lingering issue presses itself into her thoughts. “You know, I was surprised, when I found about about the Stroh case being transferred off Major Crimes, that you hadn’t mentioned it to me first.”

He winces. “I just thought...I thought I should have some kind of solution, before I told you.”

“Rusty,” she sighs, resting her mug on the table before leaning forward to clasp his shoulder. She holds her point until he meets her eyes. “You don’t need to worry about having a solution for this. You just need to stay safe.”

“Isn’t this part of staying safe, though? Keeping tabs on Stroh?” His jaw tightens as he glances to his papers, his computer. “I might be the only person doing that, now.”

“You’re not, I promise.” When he opens his mouth to argue, Sharon shakes her head. “I discussed it with Andy. He’s been in contact with the new case detective in Fugitives. She knows how dangerous Stroh is, and she’s happy to have Major Crimes helping her keep tabs on him.” She leans back into her chair, letting a grin turn her lips. “Unofficially, of course.”

“So you think I should just, like, let it go?”

“I think…” Sharon’s professional advice dead-ends here. She studies the hills’ scraggly outlines beyond the balcony, wondering whether any of them will ever be able to just...release the specter of Philip Stroh, cast him out from their lives. Surely, at some point, they will. Forcing her lips upward, she regards her son, whose remarkable life stands open at the beginning of another new chapter. “I think you’re about to be incredibly busy with law school.”

“Yeah, but Mom—”

“And,” she pushes through his protest, “I’d prefer you focus on your classes and use whatever attention you have left to exercise situational awareness. That’s all.”

Rusty fixes her with a wary, sidelong look. “You’ll let me know if there’s something I need to know about Stroh? For these situational awareness reasons, I mean.”

“I will.” She offers him a solemn nod. “In the meantime, we can keep an eye out for him together, okay?”

“Okay.” He angles his computer in her direction, clicking into a spreadsheet. “So this is what I have so far…”

Rusty spends almost an hour walking Sharon through his admittedly impressive accounting of Stroh’s history and past acquaintances. The amount of data he’s collected is near-astonishing in its breadth and depth, especially since it was all hiding on the internet. He’s explaining his plan to mine the  _ Times _ archives when her phone sets to buzzing against the table. 

“Hang on a second,” Sharon says, flipping the screen face-up. 

Rusty snickers. “I bet it’s Ricky, wondering if we’ve left yet.”

It isn’t Ricky at all, though. Sharon’s expression folds into a frown as she pushes back from the table and wanders into the living room before picking up.

“Andy, what's going on?”

He answers, “ _ Well _ ,” and the hard note of it is enough to tell her their weekend is in the process of collapsing beneath them. A long silence follows, then, “I’ve been  _ ordered _ to stay on the clock to support a gang takedown that’s happening this weekend.”

“Gangs  _ again _ ?” she hisses. But even setting aside the mismatch between his job and this looming operation, Andy should’ve been off the duty roster. “You said you had leave on the calendar.”

“I did. I  _ do _ . But it doesn’t seem to make any fucking difference with this guy.” A  _ thump _ travels across the line, no doubt marking the impact of his hand against some nearby surface. “Just—” his long exhale rustles across the line. “Have some garlic fries for me, okay?”

“Andy…” Her voice thickens at the thought of him stranded in the office as they head toward San Francisco. “You know, maybe we can—”

She breaks off when a muffled voice carries into her ear. After a moment, his voice carries through, hushed. “Hey, Sharon, I gotta go.”

“Okay,” she sighs, releasing her farfetched solutions with the breath. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

The call beeps to an end in her ear. How odd it is, being on the other side of a plan canceled in favor of murder. Sharon idly taps her phone into her palm as she paces, considering how best to move forward. Nicole should know, since her motivation in taking the trip likely lay in the opportunity to spend time with her dad. Ricky will want to find someone to take Andy’s ticket. Rusty needs to be ready to help drive.

In the kitchen, her eyes catch on the container of cookies sitting next to the fridge, waiting to be dropped into the car. The least she can do is leave a stack here, for Andy to enjoy when he gets home. 

When he gets home, to the empty, silent condo. Home, hundreds of miles from where he’d  _ so _ looked forward to being. Home, to watch on television the game he’d blocked onto his calendar months ago. If he gets to watch it at all.

A sad weight settles onto Sharon’s sinuses even as her temples throb in time with her pulse. Her upset branches beyond Williams and the blood-boiling power play he’s exercising. Andy doesn’t deserve to have his mini-vacation — the only break he can scrounge together with his leave bank drained — wiped away, after everything he’s endured these last six months.

The space between a weekend spent working and a few sunny days spent with family is equal to the distance between existing and living. It’s a gap Sharon’s studied with intent since her heart first gave way. And, much as she fought against the notion that to continue breathing was enough for her, she can’t flit away for a weekend of fun and leave Andy sinking back into a shadow of his once work-dominated existence.

She logs back into her phone and scrolls down her contact list, tapping her step-daughter’s name with a deep breath. How many times in Nicole’s life — in all five of their children’s lives — has a last-minute phone call stolen away their most anticipated plans? Not even adulthood can guard against the disappointment.

“Nicole, it’s Sharon.” She sighs against the lightly confused greeting she receives. “I’m afraid we’re going to need to make some changes to the trip.”

By the time dusk settles on LA, Sharon’s car has safely completed its journey up the 5. But Sharon herself stands in the kitchen at home, admiring her handiwork. The scene is impressively close to what she’d pictured, given the scant hour’s warning she’d received before Andy’s arrival home. Several aluminum trays warm in the oven and a jazz playlist billows gently from the stereo. Orange candlelight flitters through the living room. Two bottles of strawberry Perrier and a miniature ricotta cheesecake chill in the fridge. Having just slipped on a dress and heels to complete the scene, Sharon’s half-giddy apprehension peaks as a scrape carries from the deadbolt. 

“It’s unbe-fucking-lievable, that’s what it is,” Andy mutters as the door clicks open. “It’s like he thinks we’re—” 

Sharon grins to herself as his voice comes to an abrupt halt. A clang marks his keys dropping into the dish in the entryway. She crosses her arms and leans against the refrigerator, waiting for him. “Uh,” he continues, “I gotta go.” After a second, he adds, “No, nothing like that...Yeah. I’ll check in tomorrow.”

When he finally rounds the corner, it’s with a heavy frown. She meets him with a wide smile, relishing in the confused surprise blooming across his face as she reels him in.

“Sharon, what’re you—” He bites off his question when she tips onto her toes to kiss him. But the contact leaves his curiosity unsatisfied. “Why aren’t you in San Francisco?”

“I knew you’d be disappointed over missing the trip.” She rests her arms on his shoulders, letting her fingers flutter over the heights of his back. “Besides, it wouldn’t have felt right, going to a Dodger game without you.” 

His face falls. “You didn’t need to stay for me. You’re missing a weekend with Ricky, and—”

“And he understood why I wanted to hang back.” She runs the sides of her thumbs along the short hair at the base of his neck as she grimaces. “I felt too much like an extra wheel, anyway, going with all the kids. Rusty was fine driving up with Dean and Nicole.”

“But—”

She plants her index finger across his lips. “Shush.” 

Fixing him with a stare that she trusts will hold back his attempts at a pity party, Sharon draws her palms over his shoulders and down his chest. “I ordered us some dinner,” she explains, drawing flush against him. “And,  _ amazingly _ ,” she sets to loosening his tie, “I can’t help but notice we have this entire condo to ourselves, for once.”

“Well, yeah, there  _ is _ that.” Andy’s voice warms by a degree or two. His eyes drift to the living room curtains, which she pulled closed while waiting for him to get home. It’s with this dissonant sight — she rarely blocks her much-loved view of the park outside —  that realization clicks into place across his features. 

A weekend with just the two of them at home happens to be one of the items lingering on Sharon’s post-recuperation wishlist. Still, this process of overt seduction isn’t her forte. It always turns into a battle between instinct and overthought. Tonight, it’s a struggle to convince herself she isn’t forcing it, so she focuses on keeping her grin from faltering as she guides his hand to the tie of her wrap dress. This turns doubly so when Andy pulls the knot loose, brushes the soft blue cotton aside to reveal a much-agonized-over La Perla lingerie set. 

Fashioned from a dusty rose shade of barely-there sheer tulle, the pieces are a relic of her not-so distant past; purchases made in anticipation of their honeymoon, back when the journey was still scheduled for mid-December. They’re artifacts from an era marked by ignorance of the term “cardiomyopathy,” a time when nothing more than a faint spatter of freckles marked the skin over her breastbone. Even then, she’d selected the lingerie as a special surprise, a step beyond her normal lacy options. 

Now the gossamer garments represent a stumbling leap back toward confidence, paired with an acceptance that their Ireland trip — whenever it happens — will require a new set of indulgences. Standing over her dresser earlier, Sharon had supposed Andy wouldn’t mind her ruining the surprise.  _ Well... _ part _ of the surprise, at least _ .

His long, rough exhale paired with widening eyes and roaming hands, confirms the guess. “You  _ do _ know the secret to improving my mood.”

“Imagine that.” Sharon tugs at his belt as she backs toward the couch. His smile goes wolfish as he captures her chin between his palms. The contact foretells a blazing, rousing kiss that leaves her melting onto the cushions even as she distractedly assists Andy with shedding the remainder of his clothes. By the time his hips weigh onto hers, his arms, like roots beneath her, gather them into complete, impeccable contact...by that point she’s certain he’s forgotten about San Francisco; that the city even exists, that baseball is a thing, that he had any kind of plans at all.

She gladly keeps him stupefied and dumb for as long as they both can manage. And, then, once they’re consumed and sated, she resolves to hold him down like a solid glass orb on a sheaf of paper. His heart beats steady beneath her cheek. The rhythm leaves her yawning, already begrudging his return to the PAB. “When do you have to go back in?”

The hand tangled in her hair stills its path across her scalp. “I don’t.”

Sharon settles her chin on her hand, where it rests palm-down on his chest. Her skepticism carries on a lifted brow. “Why do I have a sinking feeling you told your boss to go fuck himself?” 

Andy’s eyes go round at her use of his profanity of choice, but it doesn’t earn the smile she’d been hoping for. “I didn’t have to,” his voice hardens. “Turns out there’s no emergency, after all. He kept me around just long enough to scrap our plans.”

A flare of annoyance fires within her, but their proximity, here and now, douses it just as quickly.  _ Williams can’t ruin this. _

“Well…” Sharon’s eyes travel along the line of his jaw. “We could still go, you know.” She smooths her palm along his ribs in response to his skeptical grimace. “He can believe he ruined your weekend, and we can still get to the game. Everybody wins.”

“I mean,” his voice pulls toward uncertainty. “I know you don’t like last-minute changes…” 

She directs a snort into the back of her hand. “Darling, this entire ordeal has turned into a last-minute change.”

“Uh,  _ ordeal _ ?” he teases, with a gentle pinch of her thigh.

Ignoring him, she continues her persuasion. “Besides, I trust  _ you  _ to get me there in one piece, with my sanity intact.”

“In sickness, health, and impromptu road trips.” Andy’s voice drops into a thoughtful tone. “You don’t think Ricky’s sold our tickets already?”

Sharon reaches for her phone, aiming to ask her son that very question. “Even if he  _ has _ , we can buy up a couple seats somewhere else and meet up with the kids before and after the game.”

“You have a point.”

After firing a text to Ricky, she drops her phone onto the cushion behind Andy’s shoulder and allows herself some optimism. “We could still get a decent night’s sleep,” she threads her fingers back from his temples, “get up, get on the road, and end up at the park with plenty of time before the game.”

“If we left by seven, yeah,” he echoes as his gaze goes long. “We’d have lots of time.”

Following a chime, Sharon peers at her phone. The reply from Ricky:  _ I just put them on StubHub. _ She sighs and holds the screen toward Andy, who frowns and reaches for his own phone. “What section and row are they in?”

After volleying the question back to her son, she watches him swiping intently across his screen. “What, you think you can buy them back?”

“Sure, why not?”

A vibration in her hand heralds a reply. “Section 204, row 3.”

A few seconds pass with Andy squinting and tapping at his phone. But, thanks to the wonders of technology, he’s left grinning. “Found ‘em.”

“I think that’s a sign.”

“A good of one as any.” But, in a flash, his brow knits heavy. “Holy shit!”

“What?” The outburst leaves her pushing off his chest, angling upward for a view of the phone.

Following a wince and his gentle relocation of her elbow, he explains, “He put a hell of a markup on ‘em. Forty bucks over face value!”

Sharon rolls her eyes and settles back into her spot. “Ricky  _ is _ a businessman, at the end of the day.” She lets her nails draw a ghosting, circular pattern across his chest. “Besides, can you  _ really _ put a price tag on family togetherness?”

“Yeah, apparently it’s 80 bucks, plus tax,” Andy grumbles. But, a few seconds later, he displays the completed transaction screen. “Ta-da.”

“Yay!” She unfolds enough to plant a kiss on his cheek. “See, maybe our weekend ends up even better than it would’ve been if you’d come home on time.”

“Well,” his gaze slides down her body, setting goosebumps prickling over her skin as his palms follow behind. “I’d say that’s  _ already _ the case, and getting more—”

A prolonged, gurgling growl from Andy’s stomach — forceful enough for her to feel from above — interrupts his point and leaves him scrunching his face into a lopsided grimace.

Sharon muffles a giggle into his chest. “You were saying?”

“Uh,” he cranes his neck back, throwing a glance toward the kitchen before asking, “Did you mention something about dinner?”

“I  _ did _ . Mushroom ravioli and linguini marinara from Trattoria Bianca. And there’s focaccia, too.”

A contented rumble lifts from his throat. “Perfect taste, as always.” He brushes a kiss to her forehead before moving to shift from beneath her. “I can’t choose. You wanna split?”

“Sure.” 

Andy arches his back into a stretch before sauntering around the couch and into their room. His earlier tension has vanished without a trace. Sharon considers this victory with a smirk as she wraps herself into his discarded button-up and slides onto the floor at the foot of the couch.

When it comes to win-win situations, working his anger down while securing her own satisfaction — several times over — far outpaces their slapdash rescue of the San Francisco trip. It’s near incredible to think that just a few weeks ago, her physical condition would’ve required a different approach. She finger combs her hair into something approaching order, appreciating all the ways she’s coming back to herself since the surgery.

Andy reappears in his pajamas, wearing a questioning look along with them. 

“It’s in the oven,” she answers. “I put a few seltzers in the fridge, too.” 

“M’kay.”

With impressive dexterity, Andy delivers both pastas, the bread, waters, plates, napkins, and silverware to the coffee table in a single trip. As he settles next to her and sets to opening and dividing the food, Sharon leans forward to rest her cheek against the flat plane of his scapula. Her arms wrap around his middle, soaking in the placid intimacy of the moment and her gratitude for having it. His hand envelops hers for the briefest of seconds, then he’s back to scooping and sliding. 

When one of the Perriers hisses open, she takes it as a cue to sit up and scoot toward the table. Her hunger, pushed aside for several hours at this point, surges forth at the sight of a plateful of semi-verboten carbs. The first ravioli she spears onto her fork hits her tongue with an earthy, silky richness that legitimizes the wait.

At her side, Andy, surprisingly, takes a moment before digging into his own food. “Hey Sharon?”

“Hmm?” She spares a glance to him from where she twirls linguini, careful not to splatter sauce on his shirt. An unfamiliar, serene expression has smoothed his features.

“There’s no one I’d rather go on an impromptu adventure with.”

Why this simple admission leaves her eyes watering, Sharon has no idea. But as she stretches a wide smile, all that matters is her agreement. “The feeling’s mutual.” 

Recalling a long-ago, parallel moment of fondness for him, she bumps her shoulder against his arm before lifting a forkful of pasta to her mouth.


	12. Every Hour, Change of Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A suggestion from her therapist leaves Sharon contemplating her donor's fate.

“This whole thing...it’s just come out of nowhere.”

The newcomer — her handwritten nametag reads “Alycia” — wipes under her eyes with a wadded tissue. She’s youngish, put-together; her face is unlined, save for a few creases that remain across her forehead after she grimaces into gathering herself. “One day, I was a normal mom. A little tired, sure, but still making it to all the Parents’ Councils and recitals and baseball games. The next day…”

Sharon stares into her half-cooled coffee, its tan surface rippling within the styrofoam cup she grips. Every one of the twenty or so people in the room are familiar with The Next Day. It’s the point at which life as it’s been — good, bad, and everything between — comes to a screeching stop. It’s the dividing line between before and after, between existence as a person and a patient, where mortality shows up with its baggage like an uninvited houseguest.

“The doctor said it’s pulmonary hypertension. Probably genetic,” she shrugs, settling into the half-comfort of medical speak. “I was adopted, never knew anything about my biological parents. So who can say?”

The rhetorical question stands in the quiet. Next to Sharon, her self-described “transplant buddy” Catherine leans forward in her seat, as if lending energy for Alycia to continue. Eventually, she does. “Supposedly, I’m lucky.” Her voice breaks on this. “Lucky that this could be treated with a transplant, a new lung. But—” Her face buckles as she brings the tissue back to her mouth.

These are the hardest sessions, for Sharon. Her own stunned helplessness is too recent, too close to the surface for her to sit as a passive, supportive observer. She tightly crosses her legs at the knee, staving off the urge to fidget. Panic still climbs up her throat at the memory of a smooth-faced doctor spelling out her fate, casually dropping terms like “acute” and “last resort” and “survival rate”. There isn’t enough distance between here and the hard-lit rooms where she sat in flimsy gowns, coming face-to-face with her body’s failure.

Maybe Sharon should be better at following Cath’s lead. Then again, her friend is further removed from this stage of the process, having had her liver transplant not long after she entered religious life two decades ago. And, as a social worker, she’s more accustomed to providing comfort to relative strangers. As her experience with Sharon shows, she thinks nothing of walking up to someone she’s just met with a hug and offers of prayers.

“I don’t know how I’m going to manage,” Alycia says, her voice thick with emotion. “My kids are in high school and middle school. They still depend on me. My husband works crazy hours, and he wants to help, but…” The rest of her words disappear behind a raised palm.

Dr. Clauson, the therapist leading the group, speaks up. “Thank you so much for sharing your story with us, Alycia. It sounds like a scary, overwhelming time for you. But I promise, we all understand where you are. Many of us have held these same fears before, or even now.” 

Her eyes scan the circle of chairs, following her usual pattern of seeking peers who’ve had similar experiences. Perhaps mirroring Sharon’s earlier reflection, Dr. Clauson meets her eyes, offers an encouraging nod. This is The Signal, a silent invitation to share hard-won wisdom, ready or not. Leaning forward, Sharon clears her tightened throat, filtering a rush of emotion for a thread of rational advice.

“This is… so hard, I know. I completely understand the worry about your family and how everything will work during your illness.” Sharon thinks back to her diagnosis, the uncertainty in receiving a new heart, the long and still-ongoing recovery from her surgery; all of the help she received along the way. “But try to think of it like this: your family… they love you like  _ you  _ love  _ them _ .”

She forces a grin, hoping to reassure. “The trick is  _ allowing  _ them to demonstrate their love in new ways, ways that you might’ve owned, before. It might be the hardest thing you’ll do, through all of this. But I found…” The pressure of her misplaced frustration comes back to her, like a ghost. “I found the times when I most wanted to push my family, my support system away —  that’s when I needed them the most. It felt like too much, letting them care for me. But they  _ wanted _ to.” She shrugs. “And, quite frankly, I needed them to.” 

Alycia sniffs and nods. Dr. Clauson says, “That’s such a great perspective, Sharon. And Rob,” she nods across the circle at a young man with purple, spiked hair, “maybe you can tell Alycia a bit about what getting a new lung is like.”

“Sure thing, Doc.” 

Rob launches into a long, entertaining story covering his own transplant experience. With expert ease, he spins out the path from his “accidental” COPD diagnosis to his inauspicious first encounter with the transplant nurse who is now his wife. By the time he finishes, the room is filled with laughter. Even Alycia musters a smile at his tale. 

Dr. Clauson ends the session in her usual way, “Remember to stay mindful of your physical condition. Don’t hesitate to contact your transplant care team if  _ anything _ feels off. And have a great week, everyone.”

With the meeting adjourned, Cath practically jumps from her seat to talk with Alycia, holding out a pausing finger as she goes. While Sharon lingers by the door, waiting for her lunch companion, Dr. Clauson approaches. 

“I’m so glad to have you sharing your experiences with the group, Sharon. I think your view of family will be useful for Alycia as she moves through this process.” 

“I hope so, Doctor. And I’m happy to contribute.”

“You’re making really great progress, especially considering how quickly you went from joining the group to undergoing surgery.”

A quick response escapes Sharon. There are a dozen people within earshot that’ve been on their respective transplant lists for years. Why they continue to wait, after she shot through the process, is a mystery she’s had to set aside, for her sanity’s sake. So, on a tight smile, she says, “Some days it feels like it all happened yesterday. Other times it feels like it’s been years.”

“That’s completely normal.” The doctor nods. “But, since it’s been a few months, I’d like to offer you a challenge.”

With a lifted brow, Sharon asks, “What’s that?”

“Eventually, your transplant coordinator here will ask if you’d like to write a letter to your donor’s family.”

A chill runs down her spine. “I see.”

“It’s completely up to you. But this is around the time I suggest people start considering it. This can be a useful therapeutic writing exercise, whether you choose to send the letter or not.”

“May I ask what kinds of topics recipients usually cover?”

Dr. Clauson smiles. “Anything you’d like your donor’s loved ones to know. That varies widely from person to person.” She fixes Sharon with an assessing look. “Of course, I’d be happy to review your message, if you’d like, or we can always set aside a time to sit down and discuss it.” 

“Right.”

“For now, just think about it,” she says, offering Sharon a nod as she elbows through the door.

Over lunch, Sharon asks Cath about her own letter experience.

“Oh, yeah,” she answers. “I wrote my first one maybe a year after my transplant.”

“Your  _ first _ one?”

“Mhmm.” She pokes her fork into her pasta salad. “In my case, I got a response. From my donor’s mother, actually. It turned out she was the widow of a Baptist minister. Very devout. We sent letters back and forth for years, until she died.”

Given her lingering, complicated view of her own transplant, Sharon balks at this. “That’s…I don’t know. That’s a lot of emotional investment.”

“Well, yeah,” Cath pauses to chew through a bite of her sandwich. “But, for me, it was a good feeling, lending a bit of peace to Bernice. Her youngest son was my donor. She’d been skeptical about the entire process, to the point she almost held his organs back. But in her first letter to me, she wrote that knowing part of her son went to keeping a nun alive was the ultimate proof that she’d made the right choice in letting him go. She believed it was God’s work.”

Sharon picks at her fish. Her appetite is as nonexistent as her enthusiasm about Dr. Clauson’s challenge. “I’m not sure this exercise is for me.”

For a moment, Cath’s narrow-eyed stare makes it seem as if she’s going to question Sharon’s view. But she ends up lifting her shoulder. “It’s your choice, in the end.” She swiftly changes the subject following a sip of water. “So how was your trip up north?”

Sharon lets out a short laugh at the question. “A little more rushed than we’d expected, but still great.” 

She gives Cath a recap of the weekend — skipping over Friday as “a work thing Andy couldn’t get away from.” Their early morning Saturday drive up the coast was more pleasant than the Friday afternoon version would’ve been; the light traffic made the trip almost leisurely. They arrived at Ricky’s apartment a full three hours before the game, leaving plenty of time for lunch before heading to the park. 

Of course, to Ricky’s gloating delight, the Giants won on a walk-off homer in the 14th inning. But the loss barely registered, even for Andy. It was a near-perfect mini-vacation.

“The kids got along great,” Sharon says. “Ricky and Rusty have been close, Rusty and Nicole — and Dean, by extension, have been close. But they’re really all coming together now. It’s…” She trails off as happy tears press at her eyes. “It’s really something.”

Cath smiles. “You’ve got such a great, little unconventional family going. I love it.”

“Well, it’s not so little anymore. And we still need to find a way to get Emily and Nate looped in more. Distance makes it harder.”

“Of course, but—”

In the middle of her response, a departing diner’s large purse sweeps over the corner of their table. The motion upends Sharon’s glass, sending ice water onto Cath’s lap.

The offender — easy to pick out, thanks to her huge bag and mass of tightly curled blonde hair —  doesn’t so much as glance back on her way out of the restaurant.

“Some people,” Sharon grits as she hands a spare napkin across the table, “clearly missed out on quality time with nuns as children.”

Cath rolls her eyes and barks out a laugh, apparently unbothered as she dabs at the puddle soaking into her skirt. “You’d be surprised. We hardly have time to focus on the basics, anymore.” She rummages through her purse. “I spend my time advocating for kids’ basic survival. And for the teachers it’s mostly teaching toward the tests, like anywhere else. That and catechism.” She produces a travel pack of kleenex from her bag with a wide-smiled, “A-ha!”

The wet interruption marks the end of their meal. There’s no use in salvaging their now-drowned leftovers before heading out into the bright spring sun. A cooling breeze rustles palm fronds overhead as Cath shoots Sharon a knowing smile.

“Maybe taking on this letter can be a status check on your mindset. What would you tell the person who saved you, if you could? What are the highlights of this extended, wonderful life of yours?” Content to leave her with that question, Cath pulls her into a hug. “I’ll see you next Wednesday.”

In her own car, the letter dilemma runs like a freeway through Sharon’s head. Her chest tightens at the prospect of writing it, for reasons she can’t pinpoint. It leaves her encased under a thin layer of dread.

It’s a dread that only intensifies when she glances in her rearview mirror. A woman with curly blonde hair leans against an awning support near the restaurant’s entrance. This leaves her behind Sharon’s car, where she stares straight ahead. Her mirrored blue sunglasses obscure her eyes, but Sharon can’t shake the feeling she’s being watched. 

_ By the woman from inside the restaurant. Who is, yes, clutching her giant purse. Waiting for what, exactly _ ? Sharon takes in her reflected form for a long moment, aiming to place her amongst the long line of criminals — sworn and not — she’s investigated through the years. The attempt comes up blank.

Pulling from the parking lot with a shake of her head, she brushes away her concern over the odd young woman. She’s got enough else going on — Rusty’s law school applications, getting to the bottom of the Neil Williams situation, keeping Andy copacetic over the Neil Williams situation, her continued physical recovery, and, now, the prospect of reaching out to her donor’s family — that a strange woman in a West Hollywood shopping center shouldn’t register. 

By the time Sharon gets home, the mystery woman is nothing more than a blip in her day. But the letter lingers, piercing her attention far into the evening. The distraction must show; Andy barely flops into bed next to her before asking, “What’s up?”

“Hm?” At his flat, sidelong look,  _ Do I have to spell it out? _ , Sharon relents, settling her book onto her nightstand. “Dr. Clauson raised an…interesting ‘challenge,’ as she called it, to me today.”

“What’s that?”

“Writing a letter to my donor’s family.” 

The center of Andy’s lips lift, forming a thoughtful frown as he curls his fingers around hers. After a moment, he issues his assessment: “Nice.”

_ “Nice?” _

“Yeah, it sounds like a good idea.” He measures her lack of agreement before backtracking. “Not a good idea?”

“I asked Cath about it. She said the letter she sent to her donor’s mother started a long-term correspondence.” 

On a smirk, he says, “You’re saying you don’t want a pen pal?”

Sharon pushes a frustrated sigh. “Not particularly.”

“I get that, babe, but why not write out a quick note, let them know—”

“Because I still don’t like talking about this,” she blurts, blinking back a rogue tear. Releasing a long breath, she rests her head back into her pillow, staring up at the ceiling. “I just...struggle.”

His brow creases. “Struggle with what?”

“With…” 

How can she explain this? How can she bend her difficult, unwieldy thoughts to fit within the borders of mere words? It’s the challenge of the letter on a smaller scale, here with a solitary audience who won’t understand.

Still, Sharon forces it out. “With feeling like a worthy investment, I suppose.”

Andy’s expression clouds, showing the disagreement she expected. Their differing takes on the topic are a matter of experience: she carries a stranger’s heart, he doesn’t. His view goes no further than gratitude, hers is haunted by the truth of what had to happen to keep her here. It’s more nuanced than guilt, but it’s persistent and, she supposes, still ugly.

At his downward stare, she tries to explain. “It’s hard to describe. All I can say is...it’s still complicated. Even as grateful as I am to be here —” she runs her thumbs over his knuckles, “and I am  _ so _ incredibly grateful — there’s this sense of give-and-take that I haven’t figured out. Maybe I never will.”

Andy rubs at his eyes. A long breath flows out of him. Angling closer, he folds both his hands around hers and lets his voice drop low. “I’d be surprised if you  _ weren’t _ at least a little conflicted, Sharon, but…” He shakes his head, remaining silent a few moments, until she squeezes his hand in encouragement. “No one has the right to deem you unworthy of living. Especially not you.”

This doesn’t solve the problem of the letter, but he’s fair to raise the question of her perspective. It stings her eyes, but it’s fair. Before she can say as much, he adds, “Besides, I  _ know _ that heart was meant for you.”

Sharon rolls her head toward him. “What do you mean?”

“During your surgery,” he explains, focused on tracing lines up the back of her hand, “I ended up wandering for a while, out by the ER entrance.”

“Okay…”

“I guess one of the transplant paramedics was catching up with a friend from the hospital. I overheard them talking about the flight down from SLO.” He pauses as his expression deepens to a frown. “And the organs they brought with them.” 

A mix of annoyance and apprehension flares in Sharon’s chest. Andy knows the identity of her donor. Or, at least, he knows more than she does. He’s held back, and continues to hold back, waiting for God knows what. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d want to know. At least not yet.”

Sharon pulls a deep breath through her nose. As much as she wants to argue her legitimate right to the information, she can’t. 

Will it help or hurt, seeing her donor as a living, breathing person; someone who had a life but no longer exists? Is there any comfort in knowing the story? Or will it only pile the guilt higher onto her shoulders?

In a blink, she lets her principles— the importance of having the full picture, no matter what — drown out the rest. “Tell me.”

Andy seems to deflate at her request. But, even so, he says, “They were talking about a woman in her mid-30s.” Sharon sweeps away a comparison to Emily as he continues. “She died in a car crash. It wasn’t just her heart that ended up at Cedars. I think it was also her pancreas, liver, kidneys, maybe intestines.”

At his extended silence, she says, “Okay,” unable to offer another response.

“It was late, dark. She was driving home from work, probably after the last class at the dance studio she owned.” He pauses at Sharon’s sharp inhale. “Okay?”

Her heart — this woman’s heart — pounds in her chest. But she hums an agreement, wanting him to finish.

“I guess a kid ran out into the street ahead of her. She swerved to avoid him and ended up hitting a telephone pole.” He releases a shaky breath. “It was quick. The guy from SLO said she was close to the hospital. The paramedics got there within a few minutes, but she was already gone.”

The scene flows like something from a movie. Sharon almost resents the cliche in it, even as hearing her donor didn’t suffer releases a long-held worry. It floats away from her like a balloon in the wind. At the same time, a faint wonder sparks within her.

It’s a wonder Andy shares. “Like I said,” his voice goes rough as he pulls her against his chest. “That heart was _meant_ for you.”

She doesn’t try to stop the tears leaking from her eyes as she presses a kiss to his lips. “Thank you.”


	13. Swimming in Sevens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharon and Andy's dinner with Brad and Sonia Kennan raises new concerns about the pursuit of Neil Williams.

For what feels like the 500th time in the last three days, Sharon opens her email app and swipes downward, forcing it to reload. A handful of new messages stream in. To her disappointment, none of them bear the name she wants to see.

After plotting and re-plotting her approach a dozen times, Sharon managed to write a serviceable email to Lieutenant Angela Masuki. It was, she hopes, a nonchalant kind of message, containing an introduction, a glancing mention of Neil Williams, and an open invitation to meet. She’d tried to weave her commitment to discretion into each sentence, seeing this as her best opportunity to contact one of Williams’ accusers.

But so far, it hasn’t earned a response. Sharon heaves a sigh as she clicks the device’s screen back to darkness.

“They’re not late _yet_ ,” Andy half-calls from the kitchen. A smile colors his voice.

“Hm?” she directs the sound over her shoulder.

“No need to stare at your phone, waiting for it to ring. Kennan and, uh…”

“ _Sonia_ ,” Sharon fills in.

“Yeah, Sonia. They’re not late yet, don’t freak out.”

She rests the phone face-down on her desk, promising herself to keep it there for the rest of the evening. As long as it doesn’t bring any calls from her kids, at least. She intends to focus on their dinner with Brad and Sonia.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if Brad doesn’t remember how to get here,” Sharon explains on her way to the kitchen. At the counter, she smirks to find Andy wearing her red ruffled apron over his charcoal sweater. “Ooh, that’s a good look.”

He barely glances up from tossing vegetables under a drizzle of dressing. “I can’t sit down for dinner looking like a slob, can I?”

“I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen you look like a slob.”

On a dry laugh, he says, “Thanks babe.”

Sharon moves to stand behind him, wrapping an arm around his middle. She sniffs, bringing some unglamorous control to the first hints of a runny nose. Even through the obstruction, warm spice wafts to her senses and leaves her stomach grumbling.

“It smells delicious in here, by the way.”

“Thanks.” After a beat, he asks, “You feeling okay?” Though he tries to force lightness into the question, a core strain of worry runs through it.

“Yes, why?”

His shoulder moves beneath her cheek. “Seems like you’ve been sniffling a lot lately.”

Reassured that he won’t see the gesture, Sharon rolls her eyes. “Allergies.” She flicks her free hand toward the balcony. “Who knows what all is blooming out there?”

“Okay.” If her answer doesn’t convince him, a knock at the door steals his chance to argue.

“A-ha.” Sharon sets to untying the apron from Andy’s waist. She whispers, “Let’s take this off before I open the door.”

“What, you think I’m not secure enough in my masculinity to let your friends to see me wearing an apron?”

She snorts as she backs away from him, hands lifted. “Okay, do what you want.”

When she opens the door, he’s beside her, his sweater exposed to the elements.

Sonia greets her with an extended screech and outstretched arms, one of which carries a cheesecake. “Oh my God, Sharon! It’s been so long!” Her voice stretches and elevates vowels with an accent that Sharon now recognizes as clearly as her own home.

“It’s great to see you.” She steps out of Sonia’s half-embrace to find Andy and Brad exchanging a stiff handshake. “ _Obviously_ you two need no introductions,” Sharon quips. “Andy, this is Sonia.”

“Nice to meet you, Sonia.”

She hands the cheesecake to Sharon before taking Andy’s hand, resting her other palm atop it. “Now, I caught a hint of this at your wedding, but I wasn’t gonna pry.” She cracks into a wide smile. “Not _then_ , anyway. So,” releasing their handshake, she lifts her arms as if she’s been holding back the question for months, “where’re you from?”

Faced with her enthusiasm, Andy hesitates before answering. “Well, Bay Ridge, originally—”

“Oh, Brooklyn, of course!”

“— but we moved out to Caldwell when I was still a kid.”

“Oh my God, you’re kidding! I know Caldwell like the back of my hand.” She turns to Sharon. “You nabbed yourself a true Jersey boy. here.”

“Oh, yes,” Sharon laughs, leaning into Andy’s side. “I’m aware.”

Beaming, Sonia continues her barrage. “So, Andy, I have cousins in Caldwell.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, from way back. Did you ever go to those summer fairs at Lady of the Lake? Because my Ma, she used to drive us kids out from Tottenville every August so we could spend the whole week at my Aunt Carolina’s place, running around the neighborhood. We’d go over to the parish every night…”

Sharon moves to take the cheesecake to the kitchen as Sonia launches into her story. Brad follows her with a muttered, “You can take the New Yorker out of the boroughs…”

“No kidding.” Her lips curl upward as she tucks the dessert onto a shelf in the fridge. Grabbing a bottle of her favorite chardonnay from the door, she adds, “They’ll be at it all night, no doubt.”

Brad goes no-nonsense. “Good. That’ll give us a chance to talk a little shop.”

Sharon finds his mouth in an unexpectedly firm line as she closes the refrigerator. “ _You_ want to discuss work outside the office?” Thrown, she lifts a brow. “Since when?”

He dodges her teasing. “What are you doing with Captain Williams?”

Although she could make a reasonable guess, Sharon delivers a nonchalant, “What do you mean?”

“Look, I know it can’t be easy for you, or for anyone on your old squad, to have a stranger come in from outside and take over—”

“How is that relevant to what you’re asking about?”

“I’m sure you’re only getting half the story,” he finishes, lifting his hand in the direction of Andy’s voice. “You know, maybe it isn’t as bad as you think.”

Sharon smooths her fingertips along the counter and clears her throat, fighting to keep her voice low and even for the benefit of both her friend and her husband. “First of all, we all knew someone from _outside_ would be coming in to take over Major Crimes. Andy isn’t eligible for promotion to captain, being on restricted duty, and Lieutenants Provenza and Tao weren’t interested in applying.” Before Brad can counter, she rolls onto her other rebuttal. “Secondly, my interest in Williams is thanks to his treatment of Detective Sykes, along with the long, _long_ list of harassment allegations you dug up.”

“ _Retracted_ harassment allegations,” he says.

With narrowed eyes, she says, “Frankly, I can’t believe you’re not looking at him.”

“I’ve told you, I don’t have the grounds.”

“Well, then, what does it hurt for me to gather voluntarily provided information? Hm?” She steps around him, retrieving a corkscrew before returning to her spot. “It’s not as if I’m misusing my authority, considering I no longer _have_ authority.”

“Your involvement…” Brad trails off with a shake of his head, his gaze floating back toward the living room. “Sharon, your involvement in this reeks of vendetta.”

“ _Vendetta_ ,” she echoes, her voice going icy as she distracts herself by turning the pointed coil through the bottle’s cork.

“Yeah, and it seems unlike _you_.”

The observation pauses Sharon’s wine-opening efforts. “Where is this coming from? Why’d you share the information with me, if—”

“I thought you wanted to know how he got to Major Crimes. Now I’m hearing you’re asking around about him, no doubt trying to find the accusers.”

“Hearing from whom?”

“Let’s leave it at ‘the grapevine.’”

She purses her lips, turning back to the wine. A few more turns of her wrist find the corkscrew driven to its hilt. “I promised you I’d keep your involvement confidential, and I will.” She lowers the gadget’s levers onto the bottle’s lip and pushes its handles downward. The cork pulls free with a slight pop. “The rest of it doesn’t concern you, and it shouldn’t.”

When he opens his mouth, no doubt to argue, Sharon half-angles toward the living room. “Andy, is dinner ready to go?”

He appears around the corner, a flicker of relief in his widened eyes. “Uh, yeah. I just need to plate it up.” Finding the kitchen crowded, he nods at Brad. “Excuse me.”

“Ah, sure thing.” He makes his way to the dining area. “Where do you want us?”

“Wherever you’d like,” Sharon answers. Turning to Andy, she asks, “Can I help?”

He glances up from dividing a pot of risotto between four plates. “You wanna get the bread out of the oven?”

Even given the lack of real estate in the kitchen, they manage to get dinner on the table with few collisions and no spills.

“Wow, this looks fantastic,” Sonia says. “I’d believe you if you said you ordered this from a restaurant.”

"Nope," Sharon squeezes her husband's shoulder as he lays the last two plates onto their placemats. "This is all Andy."

"It's not as involved as it looks," he hedges.

"It isn’t?" Sonia's eyes widen as she takes in the meal. "What all do you have here?"

"Caramelized onion risotto, blackened sea bass, and roasted broccolini and brussel sprouts with lemon-basil dressing," Andy explains, placing the last two plates.

"Oh," Sonia directs her skepticism toward Sharon. "If this isn't involved, I'd love to see what would require effort."

"I'm incredibly spoiled." Sharon shrugs. She catches Andy's eye, glad to find him grinning. At the counter, she lifts the wine. “Anyone else interested in a glass of chardonnay?”

Brad holds up a hand. “None for me.”

“Sonia?”

“What kind of chardonnay are we talking, here?”

“2016, Napa Valley, lightly oaked.”

“I asked that as if I’m some connoisseur,” Sonia laughs. “I’m not. Sounds great.”

Sharon grins at her answer as she pours a second glass. “You don’t get to sample the local wines when you’re jetting around for work?”

“Oh, I _do_ , but I don’t pay enough attention to remember what I like.” She takes the proffered glass, pausing to clink it against Sharon’s. “ _Saúde_ , dear.”

As she settles in next to Andy, Sharon asks, “And where’d you pick up that toast?”

“Mm, Lisbon. Just got back.” Sonia points her fork at her risotto. “Andy, this is incredible.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“So, you’re still working on the same squad downtown?” she asks him, over a forkful of vegetables.

“I am, yeah.” It seems, for a moment, as if Andy’s going to tack more onto his answer. Instead, he lifts his shoulder and takes a bite of fish.

Sharon angles toward him. “Coming up on — what is it now? Thirteen years, altogether?”

“Yep.”

“Wow.” Sonia rests her chin on her knuckles. “Still as exciting now as it was on day one?”

Andy chuckles. “Not exciting, exactly. Still fulfilling, though.”

“And challenging,” Sharon adds.

He nods. “Now, more than ever.”

Across the table, Brad clears his throat. “Of course, _I_ hear no shortage of words about the goings-on up in Major Crimes.” Andy’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t interrupt. Brad lift his glass toward Sharon. “What I’m curious about are the joys of retired life.”

Sonia seconds. “Oh, yeah, Sharon, you gotta tell us all about how you’re filling your wide-open days.”

“Well,” her eyes flit to her glass, the trail of wine along its walls as she tilts it in her hand. “The first few months were trying, of course. There wasn’t much to fill.”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Brad says. “But now you’re in the clear, right?”

“In a way, yes. I’ve recovered from the surgery, the heart is working as expected.” She lifts a shoulder. “On the _other_ hand, I’ll have to pay close attention to my physical condition from here out.”

“But you have plans, right?” His question, though casual, feels like a prod herding her into a rhetorical cage. “I mean, you still have a decent number of options when it comes to volunteering or service or whatever.”

Sharon places her hand over Andy’s, where he’d started drumming his fingers on the table. Ignoring his sidelong look, she extends a level answer, “I’m keeping my options open, for now.”

“Huh. I’d figured you’d be ready to have the LAPD out of your hair.”

“Well that’s true of the bureaucracy. And politics, of course.” She hums into her wine before adding, “But I miss the work.”

“Wait.” Sonia’s voice rises to disbelief, “ _Really?_ ”

Sharon’s cheeks warm. It’s a gift, she knows, to have a life after decades of punching the clock. Most people spend their entire careers looking forward to this freedom. But, save for time spent with her family and efforts to peel back the dingy layers of Neil Williams’ career, her days are hollow. It’s impossible to picture, now, what she’d dreamt up for her retirement, back when she was a rookie patrol officer. As it is, she desperately misses locking up bad guys, being a force for good in the world.  

In her silence, Andy explains, “We had a pretty great team going.” His voice is a gentle rumble.

With a nod, Sharon says, “Still do. _Mostly_.”

He grins at her. “Depends on how you look at it, I guess.”

“But isn’t it nice, not having to run out in the middle of the night, stay at the office late, all that?” Sonia pats Brad’s shoulder. “The higher this one gets promoted, the less I see him.”

“Oh, you know. So many dirty cops,” Brad chuckles, “ _so_ little time.”

“Dirty cops,” Andy mutters into his glass as he tips it to his mouth. Following a sip, he asks, “You mean like Paul Tucker?”

With his eyes fixed on Brad, he doesn’t register Sharon’s pointed stare.

"Oh, Paul!" Sonia turns to Brad. "I haven't heard that name in a while."

With Brad silenced thanks to a mouthful of greens, Andy elaborates. "Probably because PSB figured out he’d been taking kickbacks from a bunch of dirty Narcotics detectives, in exchange for his lack of interest in them."

"Not exactly," Brad grits.

"No?" The grin stretching across Andy's face recalls any number of interrogations, his skill at goading mouthy suspects into a logical corner. "'Cause that's sure what it sounded like."

"Sounded like according to whom?"

Clearly enjoying the irritation he's stirred up, Andy leans back into his chair. He tosses out a casual, "Oh...you know."

Before Brad can launch a retort, Sharon leans forward, catching his wife's eye. "Sonia, did you ever meet Paul's old partner, Marshall Wight?"

"I don't think so."

"He was a _character_." To Brad, she asks, “Remember when he spent a month walking around LAX, dressed as a janitor?”

After a measured moment, he nods. “On a volunteer basis, no less.” His lips lift, seemingly despite himself. “You know, he pulled off one of the most outrageous collars I’ve ever seen…”

They empty their plates over traded memories, a much safer and more satisfying subject than current events. As much as she prompts, though, Sharon isn’t able to pull Andy into recounting any of his many past glories or antics.

At a break in the conversation, he asks, “Anyone else up for some decaf with dessert?”

Following a chorus of pleases, he excuses himself from the table. He doesn’t return to his seat, parking instead at the counter, cross-armed, as the coffee maker gurgles to life. Sharon’s attempts to catch his attention fail. Annoyance bubbles up her throat.

When he sets to fishing mugs from the dishwasher, she rises from her own chair. “I, for one, am ready for that cheesecake.”

“It’s _amazing_ ,” Sonia says. “We get it from this Italian market down the road.”

Lifting the prized dessert from the fridge, Sharon says, “We have some homemade ginger-peach compote to go with it, too.”

“Gee whiz,” Brad laughs. “You went all out.”

At the sink, Sharon catches Andy mouthing _‘gee whiz’_ to himself. His silent snark has her batting the back of her hand against his arm. “Stop it,” she mutters.

He responds in kind. “Sorry, I  guess I wasn’t aware we had a _Leave it to Beaver_ theme going tonight.”

“What is _wrong_ with you?” The flat look he fixes her with pulls her irritation closer to the surface. “Can’t you just be civil, for once?”

The miniscule motion of his head from side-to-side says he thinks she’s missing the point. But rather than elaborate, he moves to carry two mugs to the table. “Anybody want cream?”

“Oh yes, thank you,” Sonia calls.

Without meeting Sharon’s eyes, Andy ducks into the fridge for the half-and-half and lifts the remaining mugs off the counter. He delivers the dessert plates as she prepares them. Back at the table, he stays quiet, scooping mouthfuls of cheesecake while Brad sketches the legacy of an unnamed former Vice assignee, whom he refers to as ‘The Worst Detective Ever.’

A cold stream of recognition hits Sharon as he digs into the story. She doesn’t recognize the gleam in Brad’s eye as he details the missteps of a woman who’d clearly battled more than incompetence. The story sends her introspective, scrambling over her own tales in search of a similar perspective.

There’s a thin, but bright, boundary between this story and the ones they’d shared about their colleagues. Andy’s pique falls into focus. How many times does his own name appear in IA files?

Sonia, for one, consumes the story as eagerly as her dessert. “Wouldn’t a cop know better than to try and lie her way out of trouble like that?”

"Well,” Brad chuckles, “on top of the coke, she'd been sleeping with her boss for years, so it's not like she was exactly—” He bites off the rest of his point, no doubt remembering his surroundings. His face reddens.

The table falls into stilled silence. The casual delivery of his comment sets an acidic potion of irritation and self-consciousness stirring within Sharon. She knows, all too well, the stories spread through PSB, the judgements that tend to accompany them. For years now, she’s guessed her own intrasquad romance made for quite the topic of discussion in her old office.

Andy, no doubt, catches a similar subtext. "Wasn’t exactly _what_?"

Brad directs a breezy answer toward his coffee. “Never mind!” It leaves Sharon wondering whether he’d chosen to broach this topic.

“No, I _really_ want to hear about the character defects of someone who sleeps with their boss.”

“ _Obviously_ I didn’t mean it like that—”

“You sure?”

“Andy,” Sharon bites. “Drop it.”

When he turns to her, his widened eyes hold less of the anger she’d expected and more surprise. There’s something less familiar there, too, but this isn’t the time to pick it apart.

Sonia pushes back from the table. “Well, I’m gonna use your bathroom real quick,” she nods at Sharon before leveling a stare at Brad. “Then maybe we should get going?”

His answer is a tight nod. The tableau remains pin-drop quiet until the click of a door latch carries down the hall. With glares firing over the remnants of dessert, the tension hanging overhead couldn’t build any more without breaking.

Sharon slices through the silence. “I am just…” Her disgust soaks through her words. “I’m so irritated with both of you right now, I can barely stand it.”

As if her words shattered some control within them, Brad and Andy both set to talking, each pointing and blaming the other for the turn of events.

“Stop!” She seethes. Her fingers circle her temples, an attempt to ward off the headache blossoming there.

Andy’s hand finds her shoulder. “Sharon, are you okay?”

“No,” her voice, despite her best efforts, trembles. She fixes her stare between them, boring a hole into the wall. “I’m _not_ okay. All I wanted was to have a nice dinner, and instead I got... _this_ , this two-hour pissing contest.” She stands, brushing off Andy’s palm as she goes.

It isn’t as if she has an escape route, though; at least not while Sonia’s still closed in the bathroom. She settles for leaning against the couch back, certain the sniping at the table will resume if she wanders beyond earshot. At the edge of her vision, Andy gathers his mug and plate, moves them to the kitchen. He starts arranging dirtied dishes and pans into a line above the dishwasher, clattering more than necessary.

Studying her nails, Sharon works to rein in the swirl of ire occupying her chest. _Men_ . Always marking their territory, always aiming to be kings of a nonexistent jungle. _Pulling fights out of thin air_ , she thinks. _One of Andy’s specialties, as it happens_.

A warm hand on her arm startles her away from her inner rant. After pulling her into a hug, Sonia whispers, “I’ll talk to him and figure out what’s going on.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Sharon keeps her voice low. “It’s complicated.”

This leaves Sonia’s brow lifting as she steps back, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she turns to Andy, who moves to open the door for her. “Thank you so much for that incredible meal, and for the trip down memory lane.”

“Of course, not a problem.” He twists on a grin that disappears as soon as she’s in the hallway. His eyes lift to the windows lining the living room, pointedly avoiding Brad, who offers Sharon the faintest nod as he follows his wife.

Andy takes care in closing the door and latching the deadbolt behind them, making the motions not a decibel louder than they’d be any other day.

Even so, Sharon’s ire surges when he chances a glance in her direction. “Don’t think you’re off the hook.”

“Yeah, of course,” he snaps. Stalking toward the kitchen, he pulls his sweater over his head as he goes. The motion tousles the collar of his button-up, half of it stands on end as he disappears around the corner. “You’re welcome for making this waste of a dinner, by the way.”

A metallic thud marks something heavy dropping into the sink.

What Sharon most wants is to escape to the bedroom, crawl under the covers, fall into a fake slumber and put this conversation off to another day. Or to run a spikingly hot bath, sink into it, and stay there until she’s hopelessly pruny and Andy has given up any plans to argue.

_As if that’d ever happen._

With a sigh, she trudges to the kitchen. Finding his sweater wadded on the countertop, she shakes it out, re-folds it as she considers how to broach the conversation they need to have.

In the end, she decides a direct approach is best. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”

“Because he was obviously laughing at us, Sharon. In our home, sitting at our table. In what world would that _not_ piss me off?”

The ‘he’ in the equation is obvious, even if Andy’s read of the situation escapes her. “You don’t like Brad. Why would you care what he thinks?”

“He’s supposed to be your friend. Why _doesn’t_ it bother you?”

“I don’t need validation from him, or anyone else.” She plucks a speck of lint from the wool folded beneath her hands. “And I don’t think he thought through the parallel before he started talking. He was telling a story, like he would at work.”

“Exactly!” Andy braces his hands on the edge of the counter, leaning into the grip. “You know, one of the few things I’ve learned in life is that someone who’s willing to talk shit about another person in front of you is willing to talk shit about _you_ in front of someone else.”

With this mirroring her earlier realization, Sharon can’t argue. But he pushes it too far when he jabs his hand toward the now-vacant table and adds, “And, yet, Kennan’s plenty willing to consider himself holier than anyone else in the LAPD.”

Her eyes track his path, from point to point across the kitchen as he gathers dishes. “Are you finished?”

He drops a saucepan into the sink. “I think he’s a slimeball, honestly.”

Fire reignites in Sharon’s chest. “Well, it isn’t as if you can stand to be anything other than honest, Andy.”

“You asked why I’m angry,” he grits. “So I’m telling you.”

“You barely know Brad—”

“Sharon, I know he was your partner, he’s your friend. But please, accept that I’ve seen things from him that you haven’t.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It _means_ ,” he sighs, “that I’ve watched him kiss a lot of ass in his day, and I’ve heard him do his fair share of gloating.”

“Andy—” Her voice arcs upward, into a warning.

“And now he’s giving you a hard time about this Williams thing, too?” Before Sharon can ask how he managed to hear that conversation, he casts his arms wide. “Which _I_ don’t even know about, of course.”

“That’s by design.”

“Right.” His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t press on that particular bruise. “Well, it seems to me like a higher-up has been whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Now, suddenly, he’s worried about how you’re treating Williams and he’s willing to strike out at you over it.” A quiet beat passes, with him watching her. “Does that sound like someone who’s on your side?”

“I’m more than capable of figuring out who’s on my side.”

A breath escapes him in a pointed chuff. “Fine.” He holds up his hands. “Whatever.”

He turns his back, busying himself with filling the sink, gathering the rest of the dishes, ignoring Sharon’s presence. In the silence, she stares at her fingers, digging between the wool stitches of his sweater. They seem almost separate from herself.

From above, she hears her own voice, solid and unbothered. “I’m not dropping the Williams thing, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Andy stills, then brings his chin to his shoulder, talking in her vague direction. “Nope, I’m only worried about you.”

She releases a long breath through her nose, an exercise that does little to ease the strain ratcheted through her. His overprotectiveness — that’s another argument for another day. On quiet steps, she wanders toward the bedroom, convinced they’ll make no further progress tonight.

But as she lies staring at the ceiling without a hint of sleep, their conversation echoes through her. It ties a twist of impatient regret along her spine. She holds onto this knot, stringing together different ideas until she’s satisfied she can form them into words.

The process, ironically, sends her drifting into unconsciousness. But she blinks awake at a cool rush of air on her legs, marking Andy’s climb into bed. Before he can settle with his back to her, Sharon plants her palm on his chest.

“Babe, I thought you were asleep.” His voice has gone pillowy, removed from their earlier conversation. “What’s up?”

“I want you to know,” she pauses, grasping for her carefully crafted assertion. It’s gone now, disappeared like a raindrop into a puddle. But Andy tenses at her silence, prodding her to improvise. “I don’t see my looking into Williams as a choice between siding with you or siding with Brad.”

“Okay…”

“But, if it was, or if it turned into that, I’d choose you. _Every_ time.”

He goes slack, sinking into the mattress. “I’m…” In the faint light, Sharon pieces together his confused frown. “That’s…good?”

She curls into him, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. “And I love you. Even when I wish you’d be nicer.”

Andy exhales a laugh as he drapes his arm over the small of her back. “Yeah, I love you too, Miss Manners.”

He hisses when she closes her fingers in a pinch at his ribs. “Learn to quit when you’re ahead,” she mumbles.

“Nah.” He presses his lips to her hairline. “Not my style.”

 _God help him, it really isn’t_.


	14. A Dream in this Endless Blight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharon is forced to hit the brakes.

To Sharon's right, the coffee maker hisses and gurgles. To her left, the kettle rumbles and sets to whistling. She reaches toward the latter, extinguishing the burner before the sound reaches beyond the kitchen. She pours the boiling water over a bag of Throat Coat, counting on the tea to live up to its name.

Between the burning in her throat and feeling as if she’s moving through wet concrete, Sharon had to force herself out of bed shortly after the alarm sounded on the other side of the room. She knew Andy would only go obsessive if he got out of the shower to find her in the rare state of having fallen back asleep. Instead, propped up against the counter, she mentally schedules a mid-afternoon nap. Out on the balcony, perhaps.

After a tense Sunday during which the condo felt entirely too small, she’s ready to get back into what passes as normalcy these days. She’s ready for a distraction from the memory of their disastrous dinner party, even as she admits she could’ve handled it differently. As the old saying goes, she’s ready to let a little distance push her heart toward fondness.

Sharon softens as footsteps sound down the hall. Maybe she doesn’t need that last one. From behind, Andy nuzzles his nose against her neck. His arms wind around her waist. “So, can I come out of the doghouse yet?” Against her better sense, she snorts, knowing he’ll take the sound as a victory. Within a blink, his smile stretches along her skin. “So that’s a yes?”

Taking a step out of his embrace, she turns to face him, her expression smoothed into glass. “Who says you’re doghoused, anyway?”

“C’mon, Sharon, I might be a moron, but I know when you’re angry.”

She lifts a shoulder as she trails the tea bag through her mug. “I’m still unamused,” she admits.

“Unamused, downgraded from what?”

“Livid.”

Andy’s mouth curls into a _not bad_ frown. He shrugs. “I’ll take it.” 

Judging her tea cool enough, Sharon risks a sip. The liquid hits the back of her throat like a rake on concrete. But, almost as quickly, the herbs take effect, smoothing over the inflammation. She takes another drink — less painful — before saying, “In fact, I’m considering that I may owe you an apology.”

His eyes widen, and she catches an unmistakable glimmer of mischief. “Oh?”

“ _Considering_ ,” she emphasizes with a smirk. 

“And, uh,” he tugs her back into his arms, a move that leaves her abandoning her mug to the counter. “What kind of apology might this involve?”

“Mm, the type that’ll have to wait until you have more than 20 minutes before leaving for work.”

“I’d happily be late.”

“No, no,” she says lightly, ducking away from him. “We can’t have that.”

He heaves a sigh, but moves toward the fridge. “I’m gonna have an english muffin with peanut butter. You want one?”

Sharon’s stomach twists at the suggestion. But her earlier wish echoes through her. _Normalcy_. “Sure, that sounds good.”

With an olive branch extended, their breakfast conversation doesn’t so much as touch on the weekend’s events. In fact, it leaves Sharon very much looking forward to the amends she promised. It’s all very normal, indeed. Andy gets so deep into lauding the Dodgers’ new ace pitcher that he doesn’t notice the near-intact muffin on her plate. 

She gives up on the food shortly after he leaves, sandwiching the halves together into a ziploc and into the fridge. She pours another mug of tea in lieu of breakfast, bobbing its bag through the water. As it steeps, a chime from her phone brings a message from Amy. 

_Any response from Lt Masuki?_

Sharon settles onto the couch and finds a home for her mug on the end table. She refreshes her email for good measure before responding. _No, nothing._

She taps her phone on the couch arm, staring out onto the hills as she considers her options. Waiting is high on the list, though it brings no guarantee that Angela will ever respond. Meanwhile, Sharon can’t shake the idea of Amy working for a captain who doesn’t respect her, let alone one who might force her out of Major Crimes — or worse.

With that in mind, she sends another text. _I’m thinking we might need to explore another angle._

A reply pops onto the screen. _Open to suggestions._

From her purse, Sharon pulls the notebook she’s used to piece together Williams’ seamy history. Flipping back through the pages, she revisits the conversation they’d had with Bree Birkhoff and Raquel Stewart. Much of it is without identifiable detail, sketches of a division where the Captain’s conduct was an open secret. The exception is Raquel’s memory of an officer bodily removing her from Williams’ vicinity.

A sergeant from Harbor’s admin office. Female. Tall, with green eyes and her hair french braided.

It’s a scant description, but it’s also a lead on another witness to Williams’ behavior. Maybe this sergeant, who’d seemingly been insistent on protecting Raquel, would be willing to lay down some specifics. It’s a long shot, but maybe she knows the logic behind the retracted allegations.

Sharon passes her idea to Amy. _I think I’ll take a trip down to Harbor Division. I want to find Raquel’s mystery sergeant._

From behind the couch, Rusty says, “Hey, Mom?” 

“Hmm?”

“Uh, I’m heading out.”

“Oh!” Sharon checks her watch as she makes her way to him. “It’s that time already?” She grimaces against the roughness in her voice.

“Yep.” He frowns. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yes. I’m fine.” She lifts her mug with a grin. “Nothing a little tea won’t fix.”

He shoots her a skeptical look, but says, “Okay,” as he hoists his bag onto his shoulder.

“You have your phone charger and your folio?”

“Yep.”

“And you packed two suits, right? Because I know the email said business casual for tonight, but—”

“Mom,” Rusty laughs. “I’ve got it under control. I made a list and everything.”

“So maybe I’m rubbing off on you, after all.” She pulls him into a hug with her free hand. “Just remember, Berkeley would be lucky to have you as a law student.”

He rolls his eyes as she releases him. “Yeah, I’m sure they see it that way.”

“Well, they _should_.” It isn’t as if Cal would’ve invited him up for a scholarship interview unless they thought highly of his application. But rather than turning up the pressure by reminding him of this, Sharon fixes him with a smile. “You’ll do great, I know. And I _also_ know you’ll take time to get a sense of the campus while you’re there…”

“Yeah, yeah, and I’ll get into the city to see Ricky, too.” 

“Good.”

Rusty heads for the door. “I’ll let you know when I get there. Probably around five-ish?”

“Okay.” She squeezes his shoulder, waiting until he makes eye contact before saying, “Drive safely.”

“I will.” He grins. “I promise.”

The condo feels emptier than normal once he’s gone. It’s a long-term kind of void, colored by the knowledge that he’ll soon be leaving for good. Her bonus fledgling, departing the nest. It’s a bittersweet truth, and today it makes the perfect excuse for a field trip. 

Sharon takes a mug of Throat Coat to go. The drive to San Pedro gives her a chance to consider her approach, what she hopes to gain. If the mystery sergeant emerges, she’ll need to explain her presence without scaring her off. Of course, without a name or an official reason to seek the officer out, she might not have luck getting past the front desk. That goes double if anyone recognizes her from her IA days.

She pauses for a deep breath in the Harbor guest parking area. The sun beats onto the asphalt, warming the day into what passes for sizzling in mid-spring. Sharon clears her throat and heads inside on an even stride. In a familiar motion, she pulls her retired badge from her purse as she approaches the desk, offering its leather wallet and matching ID card to the sergeant on duty. 

His eyes flit between the card and her face. His mouth drops open for a split-second before he asks, “Uh, what can I do for you, Commander?”

With a grin, Sharon replaces her badge and sticks a toe into her cover story. “I’m working on a project tracing the history of women in the LAPD. I met a female sergeant when I was down here several years ago, who told me a story I’d love to follow-up on now. But I didn’t get her name at the time. Would you be able to help me find out who she is?”

The sergeant’s stare fixes on a point far above her head, a well-practiced eye roll substitute. “Well, I’ve only been here in Harbor for five years.”

Pulling back the particulars of Williams’ path and Raquel’s story, Sharon throws her best guess onto the table. “Oh, this would’ve been within the last four or five years.”

“Okay,” he says, his tone as flat as farmland.

“She’s tall, has green eyes. Worked in the office here. The few times I saw her, she had her hair tied back in a french braid.”

The sergeant’s eyes narrow. He could be considering this description, yes. He could also be weighing her story and deeming her full of shit. For all Sharon knows, he could be Neil Williams’ very best friend. In the silence, she curses the midday sun, streaming through the lobby’s upper windows and onto her face. It heats her with more brutality than anxiety or embarrassment ever could.

Finally, the sergeant says, “Doesn’t ring a bell.” He looks down to his desk, shuffling papers, and Sharon figures he’s about to direct her toward the door. 

Instead, he adds, “But you could come talk to our historian guy.”

She lifts a brow. “You have a historian?”

“Yeah,” he nods toward her. “He’s retired too. Does it on a volunteer basis. He worked here for… well, just about forever.”

“Oh.” Sharon spares only a split-second toward the shallowness of her cover before saying, “I’d love to meet with him.”

“He isn’t here today. I usually see him on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.”

She flips open her notebook, jotting the days on the next free page. “And what’s his name?”

The sergeant pauses, watching her write the historian’s schedule. But, once he’s made whatever assessment he’s going to make, he answers, “Sammy Holgate.”

“Holgate. Perfect.” Sharon lodges her pen back into the notebook’s binding. Bent over to reload her purse, a bead of sweat rolls from her temple into the middle of her forehead. She brushes it away. But when she glances back to the sergeant, her vision seems to drag like the moisture across her skin. She reaches out to grip the counter.

The sergeant lurches forward in his seat. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she waves him off with a smile. Her attempt at a deep, calming breath sticks in her throat, resulting in a cough that counters her point. Still, she lifts a shoulder. “Just getting used to the heat again.”

“Yeah.” His voice is laced with skepticism as he settles back into his spot. “It’s only gonna get worse.”

“Of course.” Sharon flashes him a tight smile as she taps the surface under her hand. “Thank you for all your help, Sergeant.”

He offers a nod as she turns toward the door. Through the concentration needed to keep her straightline steps, she hears him call, “Stay safe, Commander.”

The ovenlike waft of air that meets her upon opening the door to her car is enough to spin her stomach. She sinks onto the driver’s seat just long enough to turn the engine to life, get air flowing through the vents. With that settled, she pulls herself back to standing, her arm bracing against the door, in the unfamiliar circumstance of having to decide how she’ll get back home. A glance toward the street finds it shimmering in her vision.

Still. Rusty’s well on his way up north. Andy is at work and shouldn’t risk Williams’ ire by stepping out to get her. God knows how much a Lyft back to Los Feliz would be. And all of those non-options would leave her car marooned in San Pedro, anyway.

With the vents exhaling cold air, Sharon slips back into her seat. As she cools, a plan slides together. Her purse holds a bag of almonds, which she digs out with trembling fingers. The nuts become sawdust in her dry mouth but they steady her head enough for a drive to the Jamba Juice down the street. 

It isn’t the most glamorous locale for smoothies in LA, but the strip mall storefront produces a half-frozen, sweet source of calories and protein. Perfect for someone who’s on the verge of passing out, she supposes. Sitting in the parking lot with her A/C blasting, she alternates sips of the drink with the arduous task of crunching through a second bag of nuts. The back of her blouse goes damp with sweat. She keeps the restaurant’s bathrooms in sight until she’s satisfied her stomach won’t revolt.

By then, she judges herself stable enough to get back onto the freeway. But even as she logs each sign of normalcy — an effort to condone her decision to push onward — she braces for the grip of nausea in her gut, the floating disengagement of vertigo. They’ve become too-common companions over the past couple days, prone to showing up whenever. 

North of downtown, exhaustion squeezes at her eyes. Her fingers go shaky again. The air filling the car goes from pleasantly cool to frigid. Even as her focus sags, hard logic sends fear snaking into her chest. Even with the cruise control parked on 65, a SUV hurtles past her window. _I could die out here_.

She doesn’t. A few minutes of white-knuckled right-lane driving and a red light spent drawing deep breaths bring her to the garage at home. Through the garage, into the lobby, and onto the elevator. Her vision seems to swing with every step. Pushing the front door open feels like a gold medal victory.

Purse on the hook by the door. Shoes toed off in the closet. Slacks off, leggings on. Sharon rolls into bed with no shortage of relief, bunching the comforter around her as a shield against the cold and the light.

_Just a nap_ , she thinks. _It’ll help. It’s just exhaustion, paired with a little sore throat._

She rouses at Andy asking, “Early night?”

The room is dark, save for faint lamplight floating through the cracked-open doorway. Sharon blinks, scrambling for her bearings. “Yeah.” She turns toward his alarm clock. It reads 8:42. 

“So, our new case is turning out to be a circus,” he says. The closet door clicks open. “I’m just grabbing some clothes, then I’m going back in.”

“M’kay.” After processing his words, she adds, “Mmm, be safe.”

“Kinda hard to be _unsafe_ when I barely get a chance to leave my desk.” 

Sharon burrows back into her pillow. “‘S good for me.”

A faint laugh carries to her. “Yeah, it’s good for you, not having to worry.” Following a string of rustling and zipping, Andy emerges from the closet. He leans onto the bed, just long enough to press his lips to her cheek. 

In a flash, she’s struck by the urge to latch onto his wrist, hold him in place, demand he stay. It’s childish, of course. But, having woken to find her throat still fiery and her temples throbbing, part of her believes having him curl up behind her in bed is the only cure. It’s just about the only thing that sounds good right now.

Instead, resigned to the unyielding tide of a murder investigation, she whispers, “I love you.”

“Love you too.” He straightens, lifts his bag. “I’ll call you when I get a sense of our timeline.”

“Okay.” 

Once he goes, Sharon sinks into a restless sleep. In and out of consciousness she seesaws, through to the pale sunlight of morning, alternating between kicking off the covers and bunching them around her with shivering arms. Her day forms around chasing whatever comfort she can gain, most of which occurs with her eyes closed.

She returns a few texts from Rusty, and, each time, considers calling Andy. The idea falls away, again and again, under the glare of rationality. What would she say? She’s tired? She’s sick? It isn’t as if any of it is an emergency, or even urgent enough to pull him away from work.

After nodding off on the couch for the umpteeth time, she trudges to bed. The sheer effort of the trip is paired with an ache that pokes at her ribs with every step. Her coughs thicken, leading to glob-filled tissues layering her nightstand. Still, she’s able to rest. And rest pushes her discomfort away.

So rest she does. Right up until a weight landing at her side pairs with a grip on her shoulder, jolting her awake.

“Sharon!”

“Hmmwhat?” From the depths of sleep, she pries her eyes open. The room is once again drenched in sunlight. She rolls over, pulling her gaze to rest on Andy, who’s settled onto the side of the bed.

He squeezes his eyes closed on a sharp sigh. A few long breaths pass over his lips before he says, “I’ve been calling you.”

“What?!” She half-rolls onto her forearm, sending a sharp shock of pain through her chest as she reaches for her phone. It’s missing from its usual spot on the nightstand. “I don’t…” Squinting at the tissue-laden stretch of polished walnut, she strains to remember where it might be. 

“You didn’t hear it ringing?”

“Um, no.” She brushes her hair back from her face, keeping her hand raised against the harsh light streaming through the curtains. “Not sure where it is.” Under the shade cast by her palm, she catches his heavy brow. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I’ve been calling for hours. Rusty’s been texting you.”

“I was _sleeping_.”

Silence falls between them. Sharon re-arranges the blankets, pulling them close to her ribs to keep the chill out. Andy turns his wrist over, checking his watch. From there, his eyes flit over her face, her sweater-wrapped chest, the comforter gathered around her form. His frown deepens before he gets up and walks out of the room.

“Andy…” Despite her intention toward clear volume, her voice comes out in an obstructed rumble. An effort to clear her throat results in a series of coughs that reach to the very bottom of her lungs, clawing all the way down.

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even slow in his leaving. When he comes back, it’s with her digital thermometer in hand. “Let’s check your temp.”

“What? No,” she winces up at him, annoyed she has to explain her obvious condition. “I’m _cold_.”

“Just...humor me,” he grits, holding the device to her lips. 

Sharon fixes him with a firm, assessing look as she leans back into her pillows. He doesn’t budge, leaving her rolling her eyes as she drops her mouth open. She’s forced to hold back a rant about irrationality and hypochondria-by-proxy, what with the metal probe stuck under her tongue.

Instead, she crosses her arms, bracing to gloat when the thermometer beeps before her lips. 

Oh yes, she’s prepared to deliver a speech, but the opportunity doesn’t present itself. Andy’s reaction to the number is a heavily creased brow and a rush of breath. 

“Jesus, Sharon.” He tosses the thermometer onto her nightstand and sets into a rush of motion. His first stop is her dresser, where he speaks, hunched over her t-shirt drawer. “We gotta get you to the hospital.”

She grimaces against this idea and rolls away from him, seeking a return to her warm, dark cocoon. He’s overreacting, as usual. All she needs is rest, a break from her concerns. A recharge. Is that too much to ask?

 _No, it isn’t_ , she reassures herself. Sharon sinks easily back into the haze of sleep, its welcoming tendrils pulling her away from the constant chill rolling over her, the thickness in her throat, the rustling and scraping of Andy moving around the room. In seconds she’s drifting back into unconscious, where she’s happy to stay.

Happy to stay...until the blankets tucked under her hips and legs disappear from around her with one swift pull. She twists onto her back, fixing the full power of her displeasure at her husband, who _very_ bravely settles onto the now-coverless edge of the bed. 

“ _What_ are you _doing_?” The question exits as a satisfying growl.

“Babe, c’mon. Please.” His fingers set to work on the buttons of her sweater, a motion that leaves her gripping at his hand. 

“Andy, stop. I’m cold.”

His eyes fix on his task as he shakes his head, pulling away from her fingers and skipping to the next button down. “No, you’re burning up.” At this, his voice shakes. “You’ve got a hundred and five degree fever. So we need to get to an ER.”

_Well._

 _When he says it like_ that…

“Okay,” she mumbles.

“Let’s get you changed into something cooler,” he says, all business as he pushes the sweater off her shoulders and peels its sleeves from her arms. 

The air against her slickened skin is icy, leaving a trail of goosebumps pricking where it touches. Sharon hauls herself to sitting, in an effort to make the process easier, quicker, less like wriggling a newborn out of a onesie. But the motion leaves her hunched and coughing, grasping for a kleenex with one hand as the other steadies her balance against Andy’s shoulder.

He sighs and brushes hair from her dampened face, waiting for her to swipe the tissue away from her mouth. “How long have you been in here?”

She stares at the duvet as she considers his question. She’d spoken to Amy on Monday, drove down to Harbor. Rusty called from Berkeley. Andy came home only briefly that night. From there, it’s been a muddled succession of naps, a few cups of tea, short stacks of saltines, and one searing, wonderful, exhausting shower. 

“What day is it?” she asks.

Andy’s jaw works for a moment before he answers, “Thursday,” with a dark look.

“Oh.” She recovers with a lift of her shoulder, but she can’t keep her eyes from flitting away from him when she adds, “It can’t have been more than a day, then.”

“You should’ve called.” 

Sharon would answer something like, ‘I was fine,’ maybe with an added reassurance of some sort, but another round of coughing steals her words. This time, his hand curls along her side, his thumb brushing her achy ribs. The contact is more of a comfort than she’d like to admit, one that leaves her silently agreeing that she should’ve let him know. 

It just hadn’t seemed that _bad_. She’d been happy sleeping it off.

Happy. And feverish, as it turns out.

As she lowers another tissue from her mouth, she catches him wincing. “I’m okay,” she rasps.

The tight line of his mouth says he isn’t convinced. “If you wanna put these on,” he hands her a Stanford t-shirt and a pair of yoga capris as he stands. “I’m gonna get you a couple cool washcloths and call Rusty.”

“Don’t—”

Andy, again, doesn’t pause in his path out of the room, tossing a response over his shoulder as he goes. “He’s gonna be back here soon. I don’t want him worrying when he shows up and finds us gone.”

The last thing Rusty needs to be concerned with is her health, but Sharon doesn’t waste any of her shortened breaths trying to argue. Instead, she shucks off the rest of her sweat-dampened clothes, trades them for looser, dry replacements, and tries not to catalogue the way her body protests against even the smallest movements. By the time she sinks back onto the mattress, she’s winded and her head throbs. She eyes her pillow with no shortage of longing.

“Okay.” Andy returns to the bedroom with two washcloths draped over a wrist and a glass of water in his other hand. “Here,” he offers the water and, hidden in his palm, two brown tablets. “Ibuprofen should help bring your fever down.” 

Once she’s swallowed the pills, he turns to the other half of his delivery. “Let’s get these on your neck,” he settles one washcloth along her nape, “and forehead.” She closes her eyes as he lies the second at her hairline. Despite her earlier chills, the cool cloths feel wonderful on her skin.

“I went ahead and called Cedars. We’re going straight there.” His voice, taut like a rubber band at its breaking point, moves around the room, following a path of drawers sliding, zippers opening, clothes swishing into a bag. “They said between the ibuprofen, washcloths, and A/C in the car, you should be fine for the drive over.”

She pries an eye open to watch him dropping a pile of his own t-shirts into an overnight bag. The thought of Andy packing for another of her trips to the hospital — preparing to sleep on hard sofas and subsist on watery coffee and cafeteria sandwiches for God knows how long — leaves tears collecting on her lashes. This isn’t what their marriage was supposed to look like. 

Turning forward, Sharon busies herself with brushing the moisture from her eyes as he recounts how he secured a two-pronged promise from Rusty: that he’d stop and get dinner on the way home and that he’ll wait until tomorrow morning to visit. A drawer slaps shut with particular finality. She blames her fever-scrambled mind for not gathering herself more fully before Andy moves to stand before her. 

The duffel falls from his hand to the floor with a faint smack. She presses her eyes closed against the sight of his gray slacks, obscured through a shimmering layer of saltwater.

“What’s wrong?” 

“I—” Rivulets track down Sharon’s cheeks as she shakes her head against the thoughts occupying her mind. _I can’t do this. I can’t keep asking you to do this._

“Babe, hey,” He crouches, his voice dropping to her level as his palms draw warm planes up her thighs. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Unable to form words as she pulls jolting breaths through her nose, she swings her head from side to side again, with more force this time.

“Yeah, yeah it will.” Andy’s hands wrap to the small of her back, his fingers gently kneading into her muscles. His lips press to her cheek and brush over her skin when he murmurs, “I promise. Just a trip to the hospital and you’ll be good as new.”

How can he promise? He has no idea — neither of them do — as to when this heart charade of hers is going to end. Her body may decide someday, out of nowhere, that what little remains of her immune system should attack it like a plague. Will she be any more ready to depart then — with her treatment options exhausted — than she was three months ago?

“C’mon.” Oblivious to her inner defeatist rant, Andy guides her off the bed. “Let’s go check in with Alonzo, see what he has to say.” His hand remains a warm weight on her back as he balances the bag on his shoulder, presses a kiss to her hair. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the final chapter of Resilient!
> 
> To anyone who might be worried, I promise I'll never abandon my central reason for starting this story. This bump in the road marks a natural break point, for reasons that will become clear as the next installment starts. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and commented, it really means a lot to me to know there are people enjoying this story.
> 
> I have a few Christmas works in progress that I'll be focusing on in the coming month, but the next piece of this series will appear near the beginning of 2019.


End file.
